After the debacle that was Operation Hot Sister, it was clear that I had lost my mojo. Granted, it is debateable whether I ever had any mojo to begin with. Either way, my self-esteem was in tatters. Not paper-shredder-sized tatters. I am talking about tatters each about the width of a quark.
Ryan, my partner in Operation Hot Sister, was also in low spirits. So between the two of us, we attempted to go the route of retail therapy to soothe our smooshed egos.
Buying skin-tight pants from Uniqlo did help a little.
But it wasn’t enough.
We were still despondent.
So Ryan came up with the brilliant idea of lunching at one of her favorite Italian restaurants, where the flirtatious waiters would be sure to boost our sadly deflated egos and give us our mojo back.
However, instead of flirting with us, our waiter essentially accused us of being gluttons and warned us against eating the after-meal chocolate lest we get horrendously fat. He even played a little charades and sketched out the outline of an enormous pregnant food belly with his hands to indicate just how fat we would get if we ate that damn piece of chocolate.
He then proceeded to flirt with the elderly women at the table at the other end of the room.
Clearly, mojo was nowhere to be found.
Later that day, I found myself in a pub by Gray’s Inn. I had arrived a bit ahead of schedule, and so I went to the bar to order a drink while I waited. Much to my dismay, they didn’t do hot whiskies there. I didn’t really want to drink anything else, so I was left standing there, looking utterly lost as I stared at the list of brews on tap.
At this point, the elderly gentleman standing next to me suggested that I order a whisky with Stone’s green ginger wine instead. He admitted that it was an old-fashioned drink that only an old codger like him would know about, but that it was a nice winter drink and that I may like it all the same.
I was thrilled to have someone take charge of the situation, so I agreed to try it. The elderly gentleman insisted on paying for it, saying that he would feel terrible if I ended up disliking the drink after taking his advice.
Being the lady that I am, I graciously accepted and introduced myself to my elderly savior. He told me that his name was Roger, and while we both waited for our friends to arrive, Roger and I chatted about bonobos, the Congo, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Californian politics. (Clearly, I am great at small talk.)
Yes, Roger was old.
No, Roger wasn’t trying to hit on me.
But this was the first time in my life that a random stranger has bought me a drink in a bar. Sad, but true.
But you know what was even more pathetic?
This was the closest that I’ve gotten to recovering my mojo after the Camden meltdown.
Oh yeah, baby. I’ve still got it.
I am the Mojo MASTER.