“YOU have it,” my friend Missy whispers to me over drinks one night at The Spotted Pig. “You have the mojo!”
She’s a little drunk, she’s extra hot and she seals the observation with a faux-lesbian kiss on my cheek.
“I’m so happy for you,” she says conspiratorially. “You’re so much sexier now.”
I know just what she means.
There’s something about dating Super Preppy that makes me feel like the most desirable girl in the room. I know – it’s cliché – but I glow. There’s a certain walk. A sly confidence. When a woman knows she is truly wanted, it shows. And it’s awesome.
If you haven’t already guessed, my friend Missy is The Mojo Queen.
She didn’t used to be. Actually, she used to be kind of a frumpy, depressed mess.
One time I took her to a Christmas party and, while everyone else wore their cutest, most revealing, tricked-out numbers (“Oh, this old thing that I spent an hour getting my cleavage just right in?”), Missy wore a blue cardigan and jeans.
She was Bland and Blander. Beige and Beiger. Forgettable and More Forgettable.
And that’s just how men reacted. Thanks and no thanks.
Except now she’s got The Mojo, sister. And, here’s where I get really 18th-wave feminist on you.
She got it from a man.
It all began when she was invited to a black-tie party, where she was forced to dress to the nines.
Extra scarlet lipstick. Defined eyes above and below the lids. Perfume. Manicure. New dress.
She found herself flirting like a maniac, smiling like she had a secret and wringing the most out of every interaction with every person she met. Suddenly, everything was rife with possibility and tension.
Enter The Cad, who – surprise, surprise – also happened to be married.
“I’m a manager where I work,” she says, “and without realizing it, I had become this sexless eunuch-like Jean Teasdale. And all of the sudden, because of this one stupid party, I did the whole Cinderella, getting-your-groove-back thing.”
In fact, just like Cinderella’s prince, The Cad tracked her down – and started e-mailing her furiously. She was completely taken out of her gray, corporate, normal world, and it was like a fairy tale.
“OK, so he was married, and he was a total player,” she says, “but he reminded me that I am crazy hot, crazy sexy and crazy desirable. I used him as much as he used me.”
Listen, I don’t advocate fooling around with married men. (My idea for a book advising men on how to cheat on their wives? First chapter: “Congratulations, you piece of s – – t, you bought this book.”)
But I’m all about fooling around with your normal sense of existence.
For the Mojo Queen, it was a dashing, unfaithful lady-killer.
For me, it was a Brooks Brothers-wearing man who, every time I see him, makes me feel like I’m the most special woman in the world.
I see a future with Super Preppy. And that’s exciting.
But no matter what happens, I know one thing for sure.
There’s no way I’m giving my mojo back.