It's official: Smooth legs on a man are a deal breaker for me.
This weekend, I met up with the aptly named SmoothLegs. We had a great date. We went to a fancy-pants restaurant where we enjoyed great food, great wine, and even great(er?) conversation.
I even let him take me back to his place, which I must admit was pretty fancy, too.
Okay, so he has smooth legs. Big whoop. He has A LOT else going for him, I thought.
I thought wrong. Once we were smooching on his bed (which was the biggest, fluffiest, most romp-worthy thing ever!) and I felt my legs tangled up in his equally smooth legs, I had a minor (aka major) freak-out.
I did the incredibly clichÃƒÂ© thing and excused myself to go freshen up and then texted my bestie from the bathroom to call me in two minutes with an emergency.
"What should the emergency be?Ã¢â‚¬Â she asked. Ã¢â‚¬Å“It has to be something believable."
"I don't care what it is! And I donÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t care if itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s believable!" I frantically texted back. (Imagine approximately six autocorrect errors in my message.)
I went back into the bedroom for what I hoped would only be two more minutes of smooth-leg torture. Luckily, right on cue, my phone began ringing obnoxiously loudly (I had turned the ring volume to the max while I was in the bathroom).
Long story short, my bestie rang in with a story about her just being hit by a cab. And just let me say, my performance on the other line was Oscar-worthy.
I'll be giving my acceptance speech on a shampoo bottle during my showers all week.
Thanks, SmoothLegs. This one's for you.