Taking the spy game to Happy Hour

If you hadn't noticed, I've been quite mum on the progress of my heels-and-marital-status study over the past few weeks.

My silence is not tantamount to project abandonment or even due to your author's waning interest in the topic. Hardly. No, the main problem - the only problem - is that it is damn difficult to gather the evidence I need (i.e. heel-height, heel-thickness, ring-or-no-ring?) when women are walking by me at a relatively quick clip. Compounding this is that I too am often on-foot while slurping down my midday protein shake.

What? Like you don't spend your 20 minute lunch walking in perfect squares around your office in 4-inch heels? Please. How else on earth is a girl supposed to earn her even-all-over Spring base-tan when the weekends are always rainy and/or 10 degrees colder than the weekdays?

But I digress.

The point is, without quite literally stalking and staring at women beyond the universally-accepted just-takin'-a-look time limit (for women, this runs about five seconds; for men, even if you're Cheney-hot, no more than three), I can't accurately and with confidence collect my three pieces of data.

My solution, then, is to tack onto the end of my original operational definition of "DC" - "a four-block radius of the ConnAve/M St. intersection" the addendum "and any right-after-work (i.e. between 5-7pm) happy hours within DC proper."

This way, sitting down, relaxed with a Heineken Light or an altered Kir Royale (sue me, I prefer getting my ounce of color with Chambord, not crème de cassis), I can sip, speak and get my sexy spy on all at the same time.


Starting now at Panache.