Master of Disguise

A good friend came into town yesterday and hooked up with her former jogging buddy. At 6 a.m. She called after they finished their nine-mile run and asked me to meet them for coffee at Starbucks. At 8 a.m.

Since I had just rolled out of bed and had no time to get all gussied up in the usual Contessa manner, I threw on a disguise. Just in case I ran into anyone I knew. I didn't want to disappoint them. The Contessa has an image to uphold, you know. Severe bedhead called for a ball cap and glasses instead of contacts helped cover up the make-up-less face.

Final touch? Workout clothes and tennis shoes, so I'd blend in with the runners. Perfect. No one's ever seen me in workout clothes. The only working out I do is weight lifting - carrying cases of wine from the car to the house. My idea of a jog is tailing Pinot & Grigio out the door when I tell them it's time to change their bed linens. Sprinting? Yeah, those are the hours I spend on my cell phone gabbing to Zinfa Delle.

It worked. A passer-by asked pointed to the chocolate creme-filled donut I was inhaling, er eating, and offered, "Carbo-loading, eh?"