Let’s get something straight: I am a decent flirt.
I’m not the prettiest girl in the room. I don’t have the sexiest bod. But there came a point in my life when I realized that though I know very, very little, most people don’t know that much more, and if I ask questions, listen to folks, read stuff, avoid eating breadsticks dipped in frosting for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and refrain from taking myself too seriously, I’m a catch! (The same is true for anyone, by the way.) This understanding has given me confidence in conversatin’ with the opposite sex. I fear no dude. Usually.
Something very interesting happened when Receiving Room Guy put his guitar down. He didn’t go directly for my delivery. There was this discernable moment of, “So… How’s it goin?” But of course I couldn’t possibly let a moment pass without filling it with words, and that is when my flirt game died. My actual sentence was:
“Well… You know, I was just sewing. Upstairs. That’s…my thing. Like, you have a guitar. That’s your…thing. And I sew. I make quilts. I’m on television. I teach people how to make quilts on television. On PBS. Patchwork quilts. You know? Quilts?”
Receiving Room Guy’s eyebrows went up. “Really? That’s so cool. Awesome.”
I nodded, smiling. “Yeah. It’s a…thing.” And then he said:
“I’ve been doing some sewing myself.”
[Go ahead. Squeak with delight. I’ll wait.]
“Oh?” I said. “Well, that’s…awesome.”
“Yeah, you know, working down here, there’s a lot of sewing supplies.” I laughed loudly and said something like, “That’s hilarious!”
He continued. “Well, it’s not sewing, exactly. But I have a denim jacket and I’ve been sewing some patches on it.”
I need to pause here and say that the youth, the long hair, bass guitar, denim jacket, and Michelangelo-level beauty may be portraying Receiving Room Guy a wee dim. Not so, and I don’t think I’m projecting. He’s sharp, and our exchanges in the receiving room are always enjoyable and sort of funny, like the time I got a box of wine – I mean a case of wine, people – and as I struggled to carry it out, I was like, “No, I got this” and he was like, “Are you sure?” and I was like, “It’s a box of wine” and he was like, “Well, if you get crushed underneath it, it’s a good way to go.” See? His eyes are bright, his pelt is shiny. He’s no bimbo.
After he told me that he has been sewing for Lord’s sake, I thought of one, single amusing thing to say as I stabbed at the iPad on the counter where you sign for your package. “Well,” I said, stabbing, “If you ever run out of sewing supplies, you should, you know, ask your boss. But if he runs out of sewing supplies, you know, let me know. I have a lot of, like, thread and stuff.” He laughed and I felt very much like I needed to leave that place while I was ahead.
Receiving Room Guy handed me my package and I wished him luck at band practice on my way out. (He told me at one point he had a private lesson and then band practice; this was after I blurted out at some point, “Areyouinaband?”) When I got to the elevator I literally smacked myself in the forehead. When did I lose the ability to talk to a person who is cute? With a dawning horror I wondered if it was because I’m older than him – by a lot, probably. Is that why getting older is hard? Because you revert to junior high school around cute boys?
There’s one more piece to the story. Tomorrow, the last piece (so far.) I’m telling you right now: you have a part to play tomorrow. I’m going to need you guys, so get your thinking caps and your advice gloves on. Advice gloves? Advice pants. I’m going to need your advice.
Just one more thing:
He has a name, you know. But I’m not going to tell you what it is. Wanna guess? Ooh! Guess! That’ll be fun. It’s good, too; if you just list male characters from Danielle Steele novels, someone will hit it eventually.