She pushes her glasses up with her index finger--for the twenty-first time circa 10:15 this morning--and she strethces her lips away from her teeth. I think she's trying to smile. It's one of those faces someone makes when making ligh of an awkward situation, or when they acknowledge some asinine mistake. But I have no clue as to why she's smiling like that right now.
I also don't understand how she can still sport Doc Martins ten years after the new millenium, why she doesn't put more make-up on her tiny, beady eyes, or how she can be married to someone other than a chick.
But as she digs her hands awkwardly into her boyfriend-fit Levis, I do understand something: I'd kill to be her. I spend hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars trying to get people to like me, or at least what I'm covered with. This woman is undoubtedly lovable. She cracks an uncomfortable colloqialism, and we all laugh. She makes an expressive insight on a seemingly simple plot, and we all listen. People like this woman. I have this weird thing for her--not in that way--and I'm pretty sure she knows more about things I wish I knew about more than I ever will.
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