I drove across the Ohio River today into southern Indiana to sell my old car, Carlene. I miss her already. I spent several hours with the prospective buyer, Demetrick, who drove her around, checked her engine, took her to a mechanic, and fiddled with her wheels. While we were in a parking lot and his friends were looking under the hood, I told him I was raising money for my upcoming trip to Prague. He said, “And you’re going there alone, you say?”
“Well, yeah, but my best friend lives there. I always stay with her.”
“You ought to take your boyfriend.” (Was this guy smooth, or what?)
“Oh. I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said. Geez. You always expect this sort of conversation to happen to someone else. I’m not sure it’s ever happened to me. All the dates I’ve gone on (none of them recent) were from meeting local people on online dating sites first, back before online dating sites went to hell.
“Well, why not?” he asked. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“Honestly? I think I’m too sexy for most men to handle.” I shrugged.
And yeah, to all of you out there who think I’m a total square who’d never say something like that in real life, I actually did say it. For reallish. And I said it with casual aplomb. You’d be proud. I’m sort of impressed with myself.
“I think you’re right about that,” he agreed.
I nodded sagely.
“You are sexy,” he added.
I blushed. “Thanks.”
So now he wants me to call him tonight. Um. What happens next here? I’m totally in the dark about these things. Someone, please fill me in. Seriously.
Then he drove me home because apparently we needed to get my dad’s signature on the title, since it was in both of our names. The three of us walked to the nearby bank and tried to figure out where to sign. It was stressful. I’m just like… oh my gosh.
Wow. Heck yeah, because I’m hot stuff. Go Meg. Work it.