By Dorothy Denne
A rather good-looking old “fogie” hit on me the other day. I did not know whether to be flattered or insulted. I have decided to take it as a compliment.
My girlfriend and I were sitting in the lounge of the hotel. We were fortifying ourselves with a glass of wine before attending what held the potential of being a very boring conference. The waiter approached our table and said to me, “The gentleman at the bar would like to buy the lady with the beautiful hair a drink.” Now that caught me totally off guard. It has been more years than I could count on many fingers since I have dealt with a like situation.
I foolishly glanced over and, of course, made instant eye contact. I was totally flustered. I felt my face get hot. My friend grinned and said, “Your face is beet red.”
I tried to smile and act nonchalant. I said, “I know it, you twit. I just hope he is so old he can’t see through his cataracts.”
Lacking recent experience, I was not sure what to do. My friend offered no help, only a disgusting giggle.
The waiter just stood there as much as to say, “Well?”
I decided I wanted to smack all three of them. I raised my hand and flashed a smile and the wedding ring I still wear at the guy at the bar. The waiter walked away. My no-help-friend giggled again and said, “You know, he is kind of cute.”
“Oh shut up,” I slurred through the tightly clenched teeth of my very controlled smile. She did not shut up. She jokingly teased me about my beautiful hair.
The waiter returned. “The gentleman says a wedding ring doesn’t have to prevent two people from having a drink together.” I had gained my composure.
To the waiter I said, “Please tell him this one does.” To my friend I said, “Not another word out of you, Mousey.”
The guy slid off the stool and as he passed our table he muttered, “Win a few, lose a few. Guess I should have tried the mousey one.”
We both cracked up completely, took my inflated ego and her deflated one and went in to the conference. It was boring, but we both agreed it had been a fun evening.
