Hit me with your best shot...I'll "signal" you in for a landing.

Yesterday I met at Redstone with Fabulous Friend Heather. We try to meet at least every six weeks to debrief on life and occasionally exchange writing for each other's feedback. Yesterday was no business, all pleasure. We sucked down our bloody marys and were very kind to the nice waiter who appeared very innocent the first few times he asked if we were ready to order. But then:

We called him over to the table because we were all set. He approached on my right, as he had done several times earlier, and touched my arm. My arm. Right below my sleeve. My bare flesh. I had enough time to think "He's touching me. His hand is on my arm. His hand is STILL on my arm." at which point he had made his way to the other side of me (with, I think, his hand still attached to my arm, though unless he was Waiter Gumby that would not be possible). "Are we ready to order?"

I ordered my calamari and Heather managed to order her flatbread without choking or bursting out into a gale of laughter, but once he walked away we turned into two teenage girls who assume that because the teacher has turned his back means he can't hear anything anymore.

"What the hell was that?" I screeched.

"He so just hit on you!" Heather howled.

I put my head in my hands. "What WAS that??" I asked again.

And we proceeded to giggle and marvel over this unexpected full-on show of affection for a good half hour. Heather suggested I give him my number, which led into a conversation about our "types"--and how I am so not a beefcake guy kind of girl. I said something about "you marrieds" because she was enjoying this whole thing all too much, and she reminded me about the need for married folk to live vicariously through their single friends in certain regards. Understood.

The situation would have been funny enough on its own but the additional irony of the fact we had just, not five minutes earlier, been discussing the "signals" women may or may not put out to the men around them. Damn me and my siren song!

We were also able to recall the last time we ate at the patio at Redstone where the server was very openly hitting on me, flirting away (he didn't, however, wrap his hand around my bare damn arm!) until I gave him a big fat tip, at which point he said "Yeah, my girlfriend and I ....blah blah blah." But that was a common type of hitting-on. Nothing like yesterday's kamikaze, suicide-bomber type of flirtation.

Next time I go to Redstone I'm wearing a wedding band. And a chastity belt. And sleeves.