I got hit on Thursday night. Mind you it was by a guy so drunk he was spilling his beer on my lap more than slipping me cheesy come-on lines. But all the same, someone tried to hit on me. This just doesn’t happen anymore. It kind of gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, ya know? Like “I still got it, damn it!”
Being married for almost seven years in a small town where everyone knows you and your husband, it’s very, very rare that a guy even looks twice at me. I also think there’s something about being married where you don’t send out those “I’m available” signals anymore, unless of course you are trying to become available.
The last time I got hit on was years ago. I was in the check-out line at the grocery store, innocently putting my items on the counter, when I hear the guy behind me say:
“Are you a fruit-on-the-bottom kind of girl, or a fruit-on-top?”
I was so shocked that I looked all around me to see if he was talking to another girl. But then I looked down at the conveyor belt – the Dannon fruit-on-the-bottom yogurts were indeed mine. Holy shit, this guy was actually throwing me a pick-up line. A super cheesy one, but still…It had been so long that I had no idea how to react. I was completely flustered. OK, flustered but flattered. The guy was obviously a tourist.
“Ummm, fruit on the bottom?” I replied hesitantly. Was that the right answer? Do you have any idea that I’m married with a kid at home?
I walked out of the store, yogurts in hand, with a big smile on my face.
This week, the guy wasn’t as smooth. I was at an Alice In Chains show at a Reno club (by the way, they were awesome!). I was pretty tired from standing all night so decided to rest my pregnant body upstairs on some chairs. I was minding my own business, checking out the chick in neon pink short-shorts and spiked heels (I’m sorry, but nothing says “fuck me” more than spiked heels), when some drunk-ass guy practically sits in my lap, spilling his beer in the process.
“Why aren’t you out there watching the show?” he slurs.
Again, I am momentarily taken aback. Is he talking to me? Since he is clearly invading my personal space and staring intently at my eyes, the answer is clear.
“Well, why aren’t you out there?”
“I came over to talk to you,” he says.
Obviously, he can’t see my blossoming belly since I am holding my coat in front of my lap. I fight the urge to say, “Nice try, dude, but did you know you are picking up on a 5-month pregnant lady whose husband is downstairs moshing?”
Instead, being the nice girl that I am (cough, cough), I try to let him down gently by clearly showing him that I’m not interested. “I’m resting,” I say, and turn away. After spilling his beverage a few more times on my knees, he finally gets the hint and walks away with his tail between his legs. The girl next to me and I exchange a look that says, “Oh geez, why do we have to put up with this stuff?”
But don’t feel too sorry for me. Nothing makes a pregnant lady’s day more than getting hit on by a guy, even if he is beer-goggling. It’s nice to feel beautiful and wanted, even if you are 10 lbs. heavier than usual.
But as my husband gently put it when I told him what had happened, “It must be your boobs. They’re huge.”
Maybe he’s right. It clearly wasn’t the yogurt this time.