Well, apparently I am cute. Damn cute. So cute that the other day at Kohl’s, a strange man (not strange, in that he was having fits or anything; strange in that he was unknown to me) stopped me, holding up two T-shirts to his manly chest.
“Excuse me, young lady-"
And of course, I stopped; he had me at "young"
"Which one of these fits me best?” He continued, coyly. He held two T-shirts up, I picked one, and commented that it would look nice for the 4th of July (red, white and blue, natch!). He admitted that was what it was for, and that he was looking forward to the fireworks.
“And speaking of fireworks, you're a cute little firecracker yourself," he said, suddenly leering.
Well. I giggled and blushed and said something stupid — my usual reaction when I’m being flirted with. Then I walked away.
Now, do you think this encounter made my day? Do you think I felt all cute and girlish and sexy, and went home and threw my husband down on the bed and asked him to talk dirty to me in a way that included many sexual innuendos regarding the explosive qualities of fireworks?
Nope. Because the man who flirted so shamelessly with me was about 102 years old.
Seriously. He was old. DAMN old. And I was just so depressed, because this was the first time anyone had flirted with me in ages. But now it’s obvious I’m only able to attract the Geritol generation, and that kind of sucks.
I remember reading somewhere that at a certain age, a woman starts to feel invisible — that she suddenly becomes aware that the world is full of younger, thinner, perkier women and that everyone’s eyes are naturally drawn to them, not the nice middle-aged lady in the khaki pants and tennis shoes, pushing a grocery cart full of bran flakes. That day has come, my friends. The only looks I’m going to get are from men with cataracts.
But on the bright side, there’s a nice nursing home just down the street from me. I guess, whenever I need a little feminine affirmation, I can drop in and offer to pick out their T-shirts for them. And to tell the truth, that does sound like more fun than Two-For-One Margarita Night at the local pub.
Now, excuse me while I go eat my bran flakes for breakfast.
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4 comments:
Pshaw. Don't be discouraged. The forties are the new twenties, y'know, and that makes the hundreds the new...er, eighties?
As I recently wrote somewhere, forty isn't the new twenty unless your ancestors are yogurt-eating Russians. But thanks for the thought!
:) My daughter (daughter! age 21!) enjoys the, um, "elderly flirts" that shop at her place of employment. Her favorite always comes in with stories about his wife; married 60 years, still very much in love.
I hope she marries someone like this. Much younger, of course, I mean...
ha! this happens to my protagonist, Claire, in my book. And it depresses the hell out of her, too. Invisible, thy name is middle-aged mom.
That said, I was at a swim meet last night and deeply depressed at the number of MILFs in my presence. I was pretty much the only MINF in the group...sigh...
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