February 14, 2008
I'm a Dirty Old Lady
Okay. So there's this nice, young man who works here. His cube is near mine, so although he's technically in a different department, I run into him often.
I'm not gonna lie -- he's pretty easy on the eyes. Dark hair, dark eyes -- just the way I like 'em. But I'm sure he's at least 15 years younger than me, and since it's completely out of the realm of possibility for him to be interested in me, he's a blip on my radar only to the extent that I know his Mom.
I mean, yes, I'm married -- exclusively -- so that right there is enough reason not to think about him. But my point is, even if I wasn't married, there's no way he would think of me as anything but That Old Lady Who Works On The Other Side Of The File Cabinets, so it's a complete non-idea.
So when he walked past with his long, normally-free-flowing hair in a ponytail, I asked him about it. Because I'm bored out of my skull, and hairstyles are a nice distraction.
He explained that, this past summer, he'd cut off his long, long hair and donated it. And now, he's growing it out to do it again, and it's gotten to the point where it's bugging him, so it's ponytail time.
Well, not only could I relate to hating hair in my face, but I, too, donated my hair! We are kindred spirits, so we bonded over that for 30 seconds. So far, our interaction was fairly standard and not out-of-the-ordinary, according to the standards already set by our previous conversations.
And here's where I probably crossed the line from tell-me-about-your-day-to-distract-me-from-mine to come-sit-on-my-lap-you-adorable-slab-of-bacon.
I was like, "That's really sweet. I would love to have your hair. It's so pretty."
Yeah. I actually said that.
In my defense, his hair is gorgeous. Jet black and thick and shiny. And he probably doesn't use a drop of product on it. It's Fantasy Hair.
Five minutes after he walked away, I realized that, although I had meant, "You're a nice person, and you were fortunate enough to inherit good DNA," he probably heard, "Come let me run my fingers through your locks, you succulent stud."
Not good.
I swear to God, people, I was not hitting on him.
So I turned to Smokey and said, "Oh my God. Do you think he thinks I was hitting on him?"
"Well, that's what I thought!"
"Oh, shit! ... Should I tell him I wasn't hitting on him, or would that just make things more awkward?"
"Um, more awkward."
"Oh my God. I'm a dirty, old lady!"
"Yup!"
And his Mom? Is the head of the H.R. department. I expect to be escorted from the building any moment now.
Comments
for the record, when the old guys at my work compliment me on my hair, I think "aww. that's just what my dad would tell me!"
but on the other hand, maybe he has a soul-crippling crush on you but is so thwarted by your wedding ring, he can't think straight....
Posted by: heather at February 14, 2008 03:43 PM
Cradle robber.
Posted by: Ozoxog at February 15, 2008 07:16 AM
Join us...
Jjjjooooiiinnnn uuuusssss....
Posted by: Uncle Twitchy at February 15, 2008 05:47 PM
Actually, you called his hair "pretty." You probably made him feel like a big flamer!
Posted by: Kelly Garrett at February 19, 2008 04:16 PM