effing with disaster

A few years ago, I made friends with a girl who was getting divorced. She was really excited about being single, going to the bars, and talking to boys. This friend was also really into self-help and she researched ways to interest the opposite sex. She shared this method with me:

1. Look up, make eye contact.
2. Look down, appear demure.
3. Look away, but aim your breasts in his direction.

No, really. This supposedly sends signals to the very primitive regions of the male groin and solicit a free drink for the lady with boobs at the ready.

I could never pull it off without erupting in giggles.

This friend of mine didn't need these articles. Articles like that were intended for people like me - those who don't possess the natural ability to flirt. Flirting is not a specialty of mine. She was the kind of person who could just naturally make anyone smile. I am the kind of person who snorts her drink out of her nose.

Granted, as I grow older, I do find ways work my womanly wiles. As a feminist, I know I'm not supposed to be proud of this. In reality, I'm somewhat impressed that I've gotten keys to certain buildings of my work, bookshelves painted in my classroom, free wiper blades from an oil change, and even an occasional shot at the bar.

Mind you, most of this attention comes from middle-aged men who are bored with their wives and jonesing at the fact that a blond-twenty-something will even look in their direction, let alone flip her hair and bat her eyelashes. For me, however, that's progress. Some people just have that natural charm. They walk in a room and everyone wants to be their new BFF. Or get in their pants.

But not me. I'd like to say I'm a fine wine, but I don't seem to get better with age. And the self-help articles are a waste of time. If my boobs are facing an opposite direction, it's probably because I need to buy a new bra.

Flirting is everywhere. There were a lot of flirtatious people at Montreat, and there is a lot of (mostly inappropriate) flirting that goes on in my workplace. As a type this, the barista behind the counter at Starbucks is trying to work it with the guy ordering a grande caramel macchiato. I don't know if I'll ever be able to flirt like the pros. I'll probably continue to do stupid things, like quote Gilmore Girls or get gum stuck in my hair (both true), but oh well.

For now, I'll take the bookshelves and wiper blades.

wg