Hello, Chef

Let shorts season begin.

It was the third time this week I wore shorts on my walk but the first time I encountered someone bent on complimenting me.

Coming around the monolithic convention center, I started down 3rd Street, deciding mid-block to cross to the other side of the street.

Halfway across, I heard a guy calling to me from the side I'd just left. I continued to the other side and he hustled across the street to join me.

"Have you ever been told how beautiful your legs are?" he inquired. A time or two, yes. But it's probably been dozens of times that that particular line has been said to me.

He wanted to know why I'd crossed the street when I saw him approaching. Explaining that I hadn't even noticed him, I'd crossed because I lived in that direction and was heading home.

"So you didn't cross to avoid me admiring your gorgeous legs then?" he asked rhetorically. What woman of a certain age would mind being admired?

Extending his hand, he introduced himself as Preston and I asked if he lived in Jackson Ward.

No, he said, he lived in Shockoe Bottom and is a private chef to three people in the Ward (a menage a trois, perhaps?), to whom he'd just dropped off their lunches.

I gave him props for having been up, cooking and delivering already when all I'd done was eat breakfast and go for a walk so far.

All of a sudden the sun peeked out from behind the clouds and he exclaimed, "Look at the sunlight on those lovely legs!"

Well, he certainly was.

Explaining that I was going to go finish my walk, he stuck out his hand again. "I might need to start walking in Jackson Ward, too, with scenery is as fine as those legs are."

Exercise is good, Preston.

I didn't get four steps before seeing a guy who'd passed us a minute earlier, now paused to let his dog relieve himself.

Glancing up as I walked by him and the pup, he smiled. "He's right."

Praise be for shorts weather.

Legs M.I.A.

My legs were covered day and night and that tells the whole story.

Sunday night, it was a black burnt velvet dress (purchased by a former boyfriend back in 1997 at Lex's in Carytown) that ended at my feet, the better to fit in for the black-tie Richmond Theater Critics Circle awards (aka the Artsies) at the November Theater.

Considering that my skirts always end well above the knees, my full-length attire was cause for comment.

"You look beautiful but what did you do with your legs?" I was asked in the lobby pre-show.

Put them away for the night?

After hearing that I looked swanky, I explained that that's like telling someone they look casual. I got an amended, "You look really good," far more complimentary to my ears.

One of the evening's hosts, Michael Hawke, came onstage and yelled, "Good evening, Richmond bitches!" setting the tone for a raucous evening celebrating local theater.

Not that I'm partial or anything, but Matt and Maggie, hosts of the monthly Ghost Light Afterparty, did some of the funniest awards presenting, using every possible opportunity to crack wise.

"Look at this! Everyone's in costume, everyone's wasted, clearly this is GLAP!" Matt joked before Maggie clarified it was the Artsies.

When they went to announce their first award, he yelled, "Wait! We have to have a drum roll!" and pulled out the GLAP bongos a familiar sight to regulars.

"I'm still not convinced this isn't the GLAP," Matt said, playing it to the hilt. "I'm pretty sure I saw Karen at the bar."

"I'm gonna go look for Karen!" Maggie said, using me as an excuse to leave her hosting duties and get a drink.

And while I wasn't at the bar (I was in my seat like a good attendee), it's always good to get a solid shout-out from the GLAP crew.

As if an evening with my assets hidden wasn't enough, I took a day to go to the country to traipse through the woods at the invitation of a friend.

The invite came with a warning, though.

"I know you're not fond of long pants but I'm going to recommend you wear a pair and some shoes suitable for hiking so we can trek through the wilderness."

What are these long pants you speak of, friend?

But I took the caveat to heart, went to Diversity Thrift and found a pair of jeans that I was told looked straight out of the disco.

Hip-huggers, multiple zippered pockets front and back, wide bell-bottoms and only $5.25, they were about as groovy (and cheap) as they come.

If there'd been a disco on the other side of the state forest, I could have gone there directly.

Instead, I spent most of a day wearing jeans, so rare an occurrence for me that I can tell you the last time I had denim obliterating a view of my gams.

February 2009.

I'm not expecting to put jeans back on again anytime soon, because what's the point in having good legs and not showing them off? Twice was more than enough.

Okay, maybe if I get invited to the disco.

55 Years and Still Looking

You never know who notices you.

Today I was walking down Broad Street past the barbershop where a guy inside has waved hello at me for years.

Ditto today where he waved as I cruised by.

From behind, I suddenly hear a voice. "Good morning! Come here, please!"

I turn around to see an older man gesturing me into the barber shop.

Since there are no customers, I go in and there, sitting in a chair, is the dark-haired barber who waves hello every time I pass, even if he's cutting hair with scissors in hand.

The two men introduce themselves and tell me they look forward to me walking by everyday.

"How long you been coming by now?" the older one asks.

Almost seven years, I tell him.

"I've been cutting hair right here for 55 years," he says, to my astonishment. "After a while, I nickname the regulars who pass by. Wanna know yours?"

The dark-haired one is grinning. "Are you gonna tell her?" he asks incredulously.

"Sure," says the older one. "Legs! That's what I been calling you since you first started coming by here. You got the best legs I ever saw on a woman. To me, you're Legs."

Just so they know, I tell them my actual name is Karen.

"Karen," the dark haired one says. "I saw you at 27 a while back but I couldn't figure out how I knew you. We even talked across the bar, but I just couldn't place you. I woke up in the middle of the night and it hit me. Legs! I'd been talking to Legs at 27!"

He remembered the specific evening - Chef Carlos' birthday party- and that I'd been wearing a dress, something he'd obviously never seen me in on my walks.

"How could you not have recognized those legs?" the older one asked him in disbelief.

Out of context, I guessed. I'd been completely out of context.

Still, it's always flattering to hear that a man woke up in the middle of the night because his brain hadn't been able to stop thinking about me.

Even if it was only my legs.

Hey, Pink Legs!

I haven't been doing my daily walks for the past ten days because of being sick, so I haven't had the pleasure of my Grace Street regulars to say inappropriate and hysterical things to me.

But with January spring fever hitting RVA today, it was time to take to the streets and see what people had to say.

Well, and get on with my life.

Before I even got started, a musician friend began it all by messaging to ask if that had been me he'd seen walking at Marshall and Jefferson this morning.

Nope, not me, so I chided him for not recognizing me by now, considering how frequently we see each other (we do live in the same neighborhood, after all).

He pleaded the early hour, his hangover, and the need for new glasses.

In an attempt to redeem himself, though, he promised me the rest of his Love Plan at his show Thursday, so I'll update you once I get steps 7-10; Prabir is an expert, you know.

Walking over to Carver to claim my car (yet again) I got a vehicle full of guys hooting at me, ending with, "Hey, Pink Legs, we love you!"

I'm guessing the hot fuchsia tights were the catalyst for that.

It's not like I haven't worn them plenty lately, but you can see a lot more of them in a jean skirt and hoodie than you can in a winter coat.

Hell, considering how many people I saw in shorts and flip-flops today, I was still overdressed for the weather and the overt spring fever in the air.

A random guy standing outside the garage said hello as I walked up and asked me if I was coming to get my car.

When I confirmed that I was, he said, "They should give you a discount just for showing up in those," gesturing at my tights.

While I agree, no discount was offered, but at least the car is functional again.

And finally, at Supercuts, the very charming guy who always trims my hair told me how fine my tights were, "I only wish I could wear something like that."

It was quite possibly the best comment of the day.

Whose Legs Are Those Anyhow?

I understand that we don't see ourselves as others do.

Intellectually, I get that a two-dimensional image in a mirror bears limited resemblance to a three-dimensional image in space. And yet my reaction when I saw the results of my recent profile shoot with my very talented photographer friend, Thomas was, do I know those legs?

I am especially familiar with this syndrome because of all the years I worked as an audio and video producer. Inevitably, people would react with horror when they first heard/saw their voice/self recorded; part of my job was to reassure them.

So I should have known better.

I looked at the photo he sent me with limited recognition. Oh, sure, the Berlin tights are mine; who else would wear them?

But those calves? I had no idea. And that vague hint of athleticism which I know for a fact doesn't exist in real life?

Not really there.

Seems I need an entire mental adjustment about what I'm walking around on. That said, I do think it's a great picture

I'll just have to deal with my acceptance issues.