The Wings Beneath My Wings

At every point in a young man/woman's life, they find themselves in that unique dating situation that can only be diffused with the help of a trusted wingperson (yes, gentlemen, winggirls do exist!!).

Whether it is the oh-my-God-I-just-saw-my-crazy-ex-while-I'm-out-on-a-date-with-this-hot-guy or the damn-this-chick-doesn't-look-as-good-up-close-as-she-did-across-the-room scenario, a simple signal to your wingperson will have you extricated from a potentially explosive situation in no time.

Contrary to popular belief, though, a wingperson isn't just there to "take one for the team" - i.e., clean up a bad situation. I've had a winggirl help facilitate a conversation with a dude I was admiring but was too shy to approach (y'all already know about my shyness), or "inadvertently" put me in the path of a guy she knows is my type. Your wingperson allows you to soar, to be the best you can be in a social situation, because you know that s/he won't let you fly solo.

I'm blessed to have many winggirls in my life; but Heather is my most consistent and winggirl. It's almost like we've gotten this wing thing down to a science. The minute I feel like "ugh, I wish this dude would get away from me!", there's Heather whisking me away to the bathroom (annoying guys, take note: we very rarely ever have to pee when we go to the bathroom, and if we don't come back to afterwards, it was you, not nature, that forced us away in the first place).

My winggirls also happen to be all statistically gorgeous, so of course there's the occasional casualty (dude that you're feeling ends up being attracted to your winggirl). If the chemistry is there on both sides, you concede defeat and move on. Sure your pride may be hurt for a few days, but it happens. The key is to never ever fight with your wingperson over a prospect. Ever. But since my friends and I are very rarely ever attracted to the same type of guys, I usually don't have to think about that.

I recently had a situation where I'd had a little too much to drink (that damn Wray & Nephew will do it to you every time). My winggirls noticed my unfocused eyes and unsteady steps and whisked me out of the club before I became "that girl" - y'know the one you see sleeping and throwing up on herself in the corner, and you say to yourself, "that girl must not have any friends". I woke up the next morning in my bed, my skinny jeans on the floor beside me (you KNOW how hard it is to get out of skinny jeans), my earrings neatly placed on the mantel beside my bed, and a garbage can with a plastic bag right beside me. I haven't the foggiest how these circumstances came about, but I know my winggirls had my back. They even did damage control with a potential future blog entry to make sure he didn't have an unfavorable impression of me.

So I just wanted to say thank you to my winggirls...you really are the wings beneath my wings!

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