On Saturday, I was in the checkout line at the grocery store and the cashier was TOTALLY hitting on me.
“You saved $4.23 with your shopper card,” he said, gazing into my eyes as he pulled the receipt off the register and handed it to me, his fingers lightly caressing the palm of my hand. “Thank you for shopping with us today.”
“No, thank YOU,” I flirted back, clutching the paper shopping bag to my huge (read: padded bra) chest. “Thanks for checking me out,” I said, because I find puns both amusing and sexy.
“Um…sure,” the cashier, both married and old enough to be my dad, looked momentarily confused. “Have a nice day.”
“I will,” I replied, and gave him a big wink. “I’m sure YOU’RE having a nice day as well.”
Now the cashier looked really confused. “I…..am….” He nodded briefly and turned his attention to the next customer.
I have a confession to make, and please- don’t judge me (that’s reserved for God and Fox News). I ALWAYS think that men are hitting on me. Always. There. I said it.
I have thought about this a lot. I really, really struggle having normal, non-sexual conversations with men I’m not related too. I believe this is for a variety of reasons:
1.) I’m a girl’s girl. I only have female friends. Sure, I have a few acquaintances that are men- but a true friend? Women only. I just don’t really relate to guys- I’m pretty sure they don’t talk about anything I’m interested in, which is fashion, Hollywood, and the comfort levels of thong underwear. I don’t really know what to talk to them about. Beer?
2.) I have an inflated ego based on nothing. I am extremely average. My vanity is not based on facts or data, only my own shallow, irrational thoughts. (Read: Front of fashion magazine says: “Plum eye shadow makes guys want you!” So I purchased plum eye shadow, wear it, and am convinced I am Megan Fox.)
3.) I get bored easily, so I create fantasies in my head to dull the repetitiveness that is life.
4.) I am mentally not well.
5.) I’m pretty sure they’re hitting on me.
“I think we need this major account to leverage our overhead so we can avoid outsourcing,” said one of my coworkers, Ronnie. We were in a status meeting with about fifteen people. Ronnie was sitting next to me, a seat he obviously picked because he’s in love with me. He turned to me. “Could you pull some of that data from last year’s numbers?”
I crossed my legs and smiled suggestively. “You WOULD choose me to help you with that, wouldn’t you?”
Ronnie paused. “Um…yeah, you’re the only one with access to those numbers.”
I snorted. “How convenient for you,” I said.
“I’m sorry…?” Ronnie asked.
“It’s just…” I leaned in a little bit so he could smell my new perfume and get a peek down my shirt. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work,” I whispered. “I’m married, and I know this is really hard for you to understand, but it’s not going to happen.”
My boss interrupted. “What’s the problem here, Living Shallow? Get Ronnie the numbers.”
I sighed and leaned back into my chair. “I don’t want you two fighting over me- for crying out loud, boss- you’re causing a scene. Jesus.” I rolled my eyes and stared at my cuticles. My boss has been crushing on me since 2007, when he hired me. It’s cute when he has these jealous fits of rage, but in a meeting? He should really try to be more professional.
My boss briefly closed his eyes, either to try to control his temper or picture me in a bikini. I assume the latter. “If there’s problem with you doing your job, we’ll talk about it later in my office,” he barked.
“Big surprise, you want me alone in your office,” I muttered under my breath.
“What?!” My boss roared.
A few days later my husband and I went out to dinner. The waiter could not have been more obvious about his feelings for me.
“More wine?” He asked, smiling at me.
“Yes, please,” I watched him pour the bottle into my glass, lust written all over his face. I could tell he wanted to say a thousand things to me- that I am the window to his soul, the mother to his children, the oxygen to his breath. But instead, he just listed off the specials of the evening as I read the pain in his eyes.
“……and that dish has a caramelized topping on it- it’s very good,” he continued. “I’ll let you two have a moment before I come back for your order.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said, woefully.
The waiter’s smiled stayed on. “Anything else you need, miss?”
“Only to ease the ache in your heart,” I whispered, sadly. I reached out and clutched his arm. “I know that unrequited love is like a thousand knives into your soul, and I’m sorry for that,” I said, dramatically.
“I’m sitting right here, honey,” my husband said dryly, interrupting me.
I ignored him and stared deep into the waiter’s eyes. “It will be painful to move on, but move on you must- as I am betrothed to another.” I touched the napkin dramatically to my eyes and gave his arm a final squeeze before letting go.
The waiter blinked a few times in confusion. “Er- I’ll be back with your salads,” he said, before running off.
My husband eyed me. “Is this about that whole you thinking everybody’s in love with you thing again?” He said, complaining. “Because that’s weird, honey.”
“I can’t turn it off,” I sniffed, defensive.
“I’m going to have to leave him a huge tip now,” my husband complained again.
When my friend, Rebecca, wants me to visit, I usually decline because I don’t want to cause tension between her husband and I and make things awkward. He always asked me really personal things, like how my job is. It’s SO obvious he wants me. To make matters worse, her five-year old son hits on me constantly. Please- all those repeated requests about pushing him on the swings? Could he BE more obvious? It’s pathetic, really.
“I’m pretty sure my son doesn’t ‘want’ you, honey,” my friend said, dryly, after I asked her to hose her kid down with cold water before I came over.
“Clearly you’re in denial, and I really don’t want to argue about it,” I snapped. “I just hope our friendship survives this.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” she moaned.
“He cries over me?” I asked. “Figures. What a fucking baby.”
I guess in the back of my mind there’s a piece of me that thinks maybe there are actually men out that aren’t interested in me. That maybe I’m mistaking basic everyday politeness for lust? That maybe every man I encounter doesn’t want me to give birth to his spawn? Perhaps I am simply stroking my own ego? That maybe they are actually in love with their own wives and not-
Oh wait, there’s a knock at the door.
I open the door and am greeted by a UPS driver.
“Package, miss,” he says, and then holds out a clipboard. “Sign here please.”
I sign and hand him back his pen as he hands me back a box.
“Thank you, have a nice day,” he says, before hurrying off.
He wants me.
Quarter Life Whatever
4 years ago