I got hit on today. By a man no younger than 85. Oh that's right, Baby. I am in demand. I mean granted the guy's eyesight was obviously shot. He probably had some kind of optic disorder where everything he sees is tall and thin. But still. I'll take what I can get. Here's how our conversation went.
Flirty Guy: You're sure a pretty girl.
Me: Uuuhh... Thank you.
Flirty Guy: You got a fella?
Me: A what?
Flirty Guy: A fella. A guy. A duuuuude.
Me: Um, wow. Yes. Yes I do.
Flirty Guy: Figures. He ever let you fool around?
Flirty Guy: Maybe on a case by case basis?
Me: (Smiling) Um, no. Probably not. He's a little old fashioned, I'm afraid. I'm sorry.
Flirty Guy: Oh. (Winks) That's too bad.
Me: Yeah, for you. (Smiling, winking back.)
Flirty Guy: Will you let me know if things don't work out?
Me: You're first on the list. Officially.
Flirty Guy: Thanks, Sweetie.
Flirty Guy: (Slips on blue blockers and shuffles toward the door.)
Oh yeah. 37, mother of three. But I've still got it. Don't think for one minute I didn't milk that all day. "What? You need me to do what? I'm sorry. I am too busy being eye candy for the geriatric demographic. Yeah? Well, you know, everyone has their niche."
Check. Me. Out.