Unequivocally, I am not a ZZ Top fan, but they did get one thing right: Every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man.
Suits. It’s been my absolute favorite show since it came out 2 seasons ago. Let the record state that I do not watch much TV and I’ve had my fill of lawyers over the years. So admittedly, I am embarrassed for myself that I continue to be drawn to this show like a moth to a flame.
Last night, I was unable to watch the elitist smut real-time so DVR’d it was – patiently awaiting my return from an exhausting day at work along with a pair of well-loved cozy black sweats, a gray North Face zip up, one sturdy hair clip and a swig of Riesling. No matter what craziness runs through my head during the course of a day, when I slide into those clothes and turn on any non-ZZ Top tunes, the burdens are eased; the thoughts quickly dissipated.
When I first began my courtship with Suits, the smitten was immediate. Sure, the eye-candy abounds, but it was more than just the superficial which garnered my unadulterated praise and subsequent practice mouthing the words, “Yes! Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Harvey!” through tear-filled, Alice Coopery eyes.
But it’s different now when I watch. Gone are my fantasy images, replaced instead by imagined impenetrable love barriers adorned with capriciousness. No longer am I on the sidelines rooting for Mike and Rachel to go at it or Harvey to reciprocate Donna’s unconditional love; I throw my North Face hood up in agreement when, as a united team, they forgo face sucking in favor of high-fiving. Clearly, high-fiving always transcends the rest, signaling a much stronger win and a much less complicated future.
On cue to some ass-kicking music, in strides Stephen from “the London office.” Blimey, I like how those little buggers talk. Stephen tries his English woo on Donna (I promise, they actually do practice law on occasion) who immediately positions herself as totally un-woo-able even though, of course, she’s already envisioning nothing but ivy, Daniel Craig, and live nutcracker men blowing trumpets on Abbey Road. Should be wearing some cozy black sweats, girl. Hardship savers that they are. She kicks him out and dabs the beads of sweat on the back of her knees.
I continue to enjoy this episode and all its new charming and interesting characters until my doorbell rings and it’s couple #1 coming back to check out the house (which is for sale). If I hate being hugged and arm-stroked by close talkers, I hate strangers rummaging through my tortilla chip cupboard even more. So I stare like I’m in a game of “whoever blinks first loses” at the TV screen.
Stephen. In a convertible Aston Martin and dressed as sharply in a suit as any man should have license and legal authority to do, pulls up alongside a beautifully-dressed-herself Donna as she’s walking the illuminated streets of New York on her way home after a rough day at the office.
“Do you think you can impress me this easily? Do you really think I’ll just get in?”
“No, but I think these tickets to Macbeth might do the trick.”
“Ah, you didn’t do your research quite well enough. I’ve already seen Macbeth.”
“Yes, but you haven’t seen it with me. In the front row. With Daniel Day Lewis as Macbeth.” And Stephen speeds off into the night, leaving her there and the rest of us wishing we were.
“I’m in trouble,” Donna mutters the clearly stolen line.
As the remote and last gulp of wine went down, all I wanted to do was hate Harvey.