D for Don’t. Sorry, Buddy.

When I gazed over my shoulder on that sunny September afternoon, I spotted the paparazzi- fully equipped with his wide-angle lens. Was the bastard taking my picture?

I gave him the hairy eyeball and went off.  I thought little of it. After all, I was wearing what I normally wore at that time: jean cut-offs, a second-hand button-up with a Mayan-inspired print, and my ‘lighter vest’, accessorized with white n’ blue wayfarer sunglasses, and my cow-print-bandana-as-a-headband.

“Whatever,” I thought.

Union Square park is not a place to judge- silly stuff happens ’round those parts often.

Months went by.  I got a call from a friend…

“Have you seen Glamour?” She asked.

“No…?”

“Well, you’re in it.”

“Ugh- I’m a ‘Don’t’ aren’t I?”

I knew it. After I hung up the phone, I scootered to 7/11 to pick up a copy (or 10).

There I was, on the last page along with Snoop Dog and Brad Pitt- but in the ‘Don’t’s Smacked across and unflattering view of my face was a black bar and a caption reading,

“Rambo Headband: Rated D for Don’t. Sorry, buddy.”

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