I should be elated to discover such a handsome group of men gathered in one convenient location, like a crisp, colorful box of French macaroons ceremoniously delivered, but eye candy is a fleeting pleasure. Particularly when there's no possibility of realization.
On closer inspection, I take note of myself, the odd misfit juxtaposed against the pretty boys. I'm sporting the wrinkled Ann Taylor dress that I wore to work last Friday. My scraggly hair sits in a low, messy ponytail. I lick my lips and realize they're devoid of lipstick.
No, no, no. This simply will not do. The image of me, dressed like this, exhausted from the night before, would be fine were it to appear within the confines of my messy little apartment, but my presence here does a disservice to the image of "fabulous" single women everywhere.
With a few air-kisses, and one last saturating look around the crowded terrace, I exit. Gelato awaits.