And here’s what a naked face and ratty-ass, lookin-like-I-just-crawled-outta-bed hair will get you.

Well, it appears I have joined Kanye in the ranks of jackassism.

This morning, I decided it was time to get back to doing something remotely healthy.

Besides breathing.

So, off to do my downtown walking and/or running, I go.

Pumped up on 5-Hour Energy, a naked face and ratty-ass, lookin-like-I-just-crawled-outta-bed hair, I find a prime parking spot, grab my iPod thing and pop out of the car.

The stretching begins.  Earbuds jammed in my ears.

Juvenile (a {probably} criminal rapper that no church-going girl should listen to or admit to listening to) starts rapping “Back that Azz Up” in my ears and yes…I’m rapping along.

(I’m hip like that.)

Just as I take my first step on a downtown journey of probably over an hour, I screech to a halt.

Where are my keys?

Oh, I’ll tell you where.  IN THE FRIGGIN LOCKED CAR.

I crapped.

(Quite possibly literally.  I don’t remember.)

In my mind, I hear me say, “OK…you’re a big girl.  This is nothing.  Walk your lame-ass self across the street to that swanky-ass hotel and just call Yellow Cab.  They’ve done the unlocking thing for you before, you jackass.”

And that’s precisely what I do.  Calm and cool.

The clerk of this swanky-ass hotel makes the call for me.  After he asked me if I was even old enough to drive a car.

Me:  “You’re a funny man and I’m 43, so yes.  I’m old enough…please call.”

(He was really nice I just wasn’t reeeeeally in the mood.)

Now, remember the guy who played that bad-ass lawyer, Eugene, on that show The Practice?  That’s the Yellow Cab driver who came to my rescue.

(Well, he looked like Eugene.  Could have been his twin.  But it wasn’t actually Eugene.)

(But should I ever kill a man…I’m calling Eugene.  That is one bad mofo.)

Anyway.

“Eugene” wasn’t in a too-hot mood, I could tell.

(After all, some honky-ass white girl probably interrupted his coffee and newspaper because she apparently can’t remember her keys need to go WITH her when she leaves her car.)

I pointed to my car parked across the street and I meet him over there.

After my incessant questioning of “how often do you have to do this?” and “you work everyday?” and “I bet you’re really glad that music festival is over, huh?” and “how long have you done the cab thing anyway?”…Eugene was smiling and being rather polite.

We are now totally cool with each other and he is yacking my ears off.

(As I was his.)

We’re almost like long-lost friends at this point.

(He just gave up actually.  I wore him down.  Just like I do every other man in my life.)

After about 8 minutes, my car is open.  Alarm screaming and people driving past are saying, “Look at that douche.  She locked herself out of her car!” I’m sure.

I tell him to meet me back at the swanky-ass hotel so I can get his $40 from the ATM.

(Hellz yeah.  $40 for 8 minutes.  I’m in the wrong line of business, fo sho.)

Here’s where it gets good.

I go in the hotel and he parks over around the corner (where you really can’t see his yellow cab) then comes around to meet me at the entrance.

He is standing at the entrance of this swanky-ass hotel waiting on me to come back out.

I come trotting out (because he’s a busy man and I’m elated and relieved it cost me ONLY $40) and there he stands.

With my naked face and ratty-ass, lookin-like-I-just-crawled-outta-bed hair I trot up to him, give him a big-ass hug and hand him the money.

Me:  “Thank you so much!  You’re the man!  Simply amazing and I really, really appreciate it!”

“Eugene:”  “Aww…don’t mention it, my lady.  Just don’t you go making a habit of doing this kind of thing!”

Me:  “Don’t worry…I’m all good now but if I do, I’m calling you!”

And as he starts walking back around the corner to his yellow cab and I start walking back across the street to my car, in slow motion I turn and my eyes are immediately fixed on this family standing at the entrance of the swanky-ass hotel.

The mother is glaring at me hard and slowly pulls her 10ish year old daughter closer to her.

I smile and say “Morning” as I stroll on by and across the street to the car.

Then it hit me.

She heard everything.

So, in her mind…I was paying for some “male services” and my “male servicer” was leaving.

From the hotel!

Where (in her mind) I must be staying because I have a naked face and ratty-ass, lookin-like-I-just-crawled-outta-bed hair!

From the hotel!

I just kept walking back to the car.  Wasn’t even gonna try and clear that little episode up.

Just let her think what she wants.

(It’s none of my business what others think of me anyway, right?)

I stuck my key in my sports bra, locked my purse back in the car and jammed the earbuds back in.

And I walked.  And I ran.  And I giggled.

(And I sweated my balls off.)

(For well over an hour.)

And because of me, Austin, TX might have one less family visit next year.

All that, my friends, is what a naked face and ratty-ass, lookin-like-I-just-crawled-outta-bed hair will get you:

A total bad-to-the-bone mofo TV lawyer who can get your keys out of your locked car with a smile and a hug.