Either I’m hot, or men are desperate.

(I can hear y’all now…”A little from column A, a little from column B….”)

Went out to get the mail, and nearly caused a car accident, as a young man practically gave himself whiplash slowing down and staring at me, which might have been unsettling, except that he nearly drove into a parked van while doing so, after which he hastily overcorrected and drove sheepishly away.

Dude. I’m not even wearing the Boots.

The Boots, of course, put things in a whole new world, I’ve discovered–I went to Food Lion in ’em the other day and had two people try to pick me up. The most entertaining of which was a gentleman yelling across the parking lot–“Hey! HEY! What’s your name? What’s your phone number? Can I talk to you?”

Brimming with the confidence that only metal spikes and leather demon skulls can give you, I yelled back “No, but nice try!”

(I related this story to Kevin, who promptly performed an abbreviated and largely mimed version of Male Territorial Dance #23 — She’s With Me, Muthafucker to a nonexistent but appreciative audience. Men are so damn cute.)

There was a time in my life that this sort of thing would make me uncomfortable–these days, I figure life is short and you take the compliments with the sincerity (if occasionally tactlessness) that they’re meant. Plus, shit, if I can cause a fender-bender walking down the sidewalk, at age thirty-one, life is good.

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