She's heard it all: "Can you teach us how to play basketball (while in your swimsuit)?," "Can I sit here? I don't want to look like a loner," and the infamous, "Wow you're from the east coast? That's so hot."
Please boys, gag me.
And oh, I promise, I gag. But for some pathetic reason, I'm having trouble working up the courage to make things 500,000,000 times more awkward by telling the poor fools that I'm married. I end up just sitting there and suffering through five minutes of them asking and me giving one word answers with a painfully obvious grimace. Honestly, I thought that it was either implied or at least mentioned in freshmen orientation that the first step prior to hitting on a girl was to assess the situation--her situation--which should be made obviously apparent by a hunk of metal on her left ring finger. Please, do me the favor. And I'm sorry, is a white rock on my finger not enough to halt your cliche brave, yet creepy advances? Should I work on my married-woman image by gaining 50 lbs and trading our VW in for a Windstar?
Yet, can I blame them as the fumes from bathing in Curve every morning have gone to their heads, so much so that they're impossible fondness of themselves puts them under the impression that no woman can resist their generic charm--no matter how happily attached?
What can I say? Am I complemented? Oh, absolutely. I've still got it--the same curse that ruined weekends from many awkward pity dates with the same unattractive, merciless creeps.
Harsh?
Yes.
But painfully true.
Next time, no more Mrs. Nice Stevens.
