Ewwww... Again!
I went out with my sister last night (DUN-Duh-DUHN!) so you know what that means. That means I get to put up with her friends AND get hit on by really old men (well…just one old guy this time).
In all honesty, all her friends were really cool this time, they minded their own business, wanted to get drunk and have a good time. The place we went to, Amber, was a bit meat markety last night, but that was expected since the place was THE place the Mariners and Yankees were going to for after-game party. So everyone was there to be seen and to see the players. I’m going to baseball hell, but I really didn’t care. I just don’t know the game or players well enough to know who’s who. I didn’t want the guys to point out, “Oh that’s Derek Jeter.” And I run over to take a picture of the poor guy who wants to have a damned drink in peace. He’s the only name I remembered from all the guys there because my old roommate used to play this Xbox baseball game that he endorsed.
So we all packed into the VIP lounge like a bunch of over-cooked sardines trying to rub elbows with the ball players. Not really my thing anymore. A few years back my buddies and I used to hang out at Belltown packed in like sardines to rub elbows with the Mariners. Freddy Garcia used to bring in some of the healthiest (read tall and big boned) girls on the block.
So if you came here to read about baseball players, I’m sorry. I don’t know them.
Instead I’ll talk about the old guy that I don’t know either. Soon as we get up to the VIP lounge this old drunk guy (he looks twice my age) stumbles toward my sister, I have no idea who he is. She’s smiling and saying hi, leans in for a quick hug and dives out of the way before he tries to plant a kiss on her. He smiles and greets me, I wave and say “Hi”. He gestures at his lips and says, “On the lips?” I instantly stop smiling and say, “NO!” That’s just disgusting. He looks shocked, “You don’t do that?” I keep moving on with a stern “No.”
Seriously, these rich old men are getting on my nerves. To make matters worse, the guy actually stumbled up to me later and asked, “Are you afraid of me?” Normally I would tell the guy off, but it was apparent that he was so drunk that whatever I say would be moot. I just told him, “No,” again and walked off.
*shudders*
The thing that gets me about all this isn't necessarily about getting hit on by an old guy. It's the fact that I see a pattern here. I'm that creepy old guy magnet.
*shudders*
I know I’m not exactly a spring chicken myself, but... What makes them think I’m interested? What draws the old guys in? Do I smell like moth balls? Is it the Extra-Strength Sea Bond I use? And in all honesty I wouldn’t mind talking to an older gentleman (gentleman being the operative word here), but it’s the fact that I get the gross disgusting tactless lines time and time again.
In all honesty, all her friends were really cool this time, they minded their own business, wanted to get drunk and have a good time. The place we went to, Amber, was a bit meat markety last night, but that was expected since the place was THE place the Mariners and Yankees were going to for after-game party. So everyone was there to be seen and to see the players. I’m going to baseball hell, but I really didn’t care. I just don’t know the game or players well enough to know who’s who. I didn’t want the guys to point out, “Oh that’s Derek Jeter.” And I run over to take a picture of the poor guy who wants to have a damned drink in peace. He’s the only name I remembered from all the guys there because my old roommate used to play this Xbox baseball game that he endorsed.
So we all packed into the VIP lounge like a bunch of over-cooked sardines trying to rub elbows with the ball players. Not really my thing anymore. A few years back my buddies and I used to hang out at Belltown packed in like sardines to rub elbows with the Mariners. Freddy Garcia used to bring in some of the healthiest (read tall and big boned) girls on the block.
So if you came here to read about baseball players, I’m sorry. I don’t know them.
Instead I’ll talk about the old guy that I don’t know either. Soon as we get up to the VIP lounge this old drunk guy (he looks twice my age) stumbles toward my sister, I have no idea who he is. She’s smiling and saying hi, leans in for a quick hug and dives out of the way before he tries to plant a kiss on her. He smiles and greets me, I wave and say “Hi”. He gestures at his lips and says, “On the lips?” I instantly stop smiling and say, “NO!” That’s just disgusting. He looks shocked, “You don’t do that?” I keep moving on with a stern “No.”
Seriously, these rich old men are getting on my nerves. To make matters worse, the guy actually stumbled up to me later and asked, “Are you afraid of me?” Normally I would tell the guy off, but it was apparent that he was so drunk that whatever I say would be moot. I just told him, “No,” again and walked off.
*shudders*
The thing that gets me about all this isn't necessarily about getting hit on by an old guy. It's the fact that I see a pattern here. I'm that creepy old guy magnet.
*shudders*
I know I’m not exactly a spring chicken myself, but... What makes them think I’m interested? What draws the old guys in? Do I smell like moth balls? Is it the Extra-Strength Sea Bond I use? And in all honesty I wouldn’t mind talking to an older gentleman (gentleman being the operative word here), but it’s the fact that I get the gross disgusting tactless lines time and time again.
posted by SteakGirl at 3:28 PM
1 Comments:
My two bits on why it always happens to you (and I may be way off base here) is that creepy social retards (empowered by money and emboldened by age and alcohol) are the only folks in the room incapable of detecting the aura of "get the hell away fom me" that you seem to try to generate.
The aura works well enough for most (except those drawn to a challenge). But for old men lacking subtlety, an unsubtle verbal "get the hell away from me" is probably necessary.
Like I said, I could be way off base, we never did hang out much after dark (not counting those goddamned northern winters).
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