It was bound to happen.

I saw her as I side-stepped around the third or fourth rapidly melting ice block on M St. in between 15th and 16th. Though I wasn't wearing my glasses, I was able to make out a woman - a woman with a pretty spectacular figure - in the not-too-far distance who, evidenced by her bare legs, lightweight trench, and I'm-having-a-pretty-day expression, had made the decision this morning that today was the day she would push aside the wool, the velvet and the tweed and liberate the silk blends, linens, and thin merinos she'd orderly tucked away in Rubbermaid vacuum-packed storage boxes above her shelves and under her bed.

We were walking toward each other, the distance between us shortening with every click of my chocolate brown suede peeptoes with bronze piping and every seasoned stride she took in her caramel matte leather almond-toed pumps. Though we'd never met before and we weren't about to turn off our iPods and meet today, there was an unspoken understanding, one over-confident woman to another, that we would exchange polite half-smiles and shoot each other "nice outfit" glances.

Just as my near-sightedness no longer hindered me from taking in this size 4, 5'9" brunette with slim hips, athletic calves and honey highlights, I saw in perfect 20/20 a familiar blue and white floral print peeking out from under her 3/4 trench.

"It couldn't be," I said in a half-whisper, "Not a DC girl," my eyes involuntarily filling with fear, jealousy and confusion.

But it was. And her packed lunch and New Balance 992s slung over her daybag didn't lie -- she was a DC girl.

There's a first for everything, and this morning, I learned this lesson the hard way. Draped on a stunning frame and coming straight at me was the current top placeholder on my wish list: the 'Jessica' wrapdress in large scattered Gingko print by Diane von Furstenburg ($345 at nordstrom.com). And to my chagrin, even with a coat on, I could tell this young woman looked good in it. Really good. Potentially better than even I would look in it.

Potentially.

Unfortunately, I was not able to regain my composure in time to feign a you-look-good-but-so-do-I smile. She knew it - as I would have - that somewhere between passing the portly woman with a buzzcut and fuchsia stirrup pants and the man listening to "Making love out of nothing at all" so loudly you heard the song before you smelled his Axe body spray, the balance had tipped in her favor. What we both assumed would be an equal admiration exchange had turned into her victory.

As you might expect, as soon as she was a safe distance behind me (yes, I looked back at her - twice), I switched from Destiny's Child ("Bootylicious") to Fiona Apple ("Oh well") and shot a face full of sulk to every passerby for the remaining two blocks.

I hadn't experienced a defeat for which I was this unprepared since I was 12 when I was forced to relinquish my Spelling Bee crown.

And for the record, I'm still convinced the moderator said "flamingo," not "flamenco."