I've spent a lot of time in bed with ... well, the croup, and with my thoughts, and I have realized two things: first, how my fantasy men behave, and second, how I behave around men.
How my fantasy men behave. Elated. Happy. Delighted to be speaking to me, having sex with me, spinning me about like I'm on ice skates. I think of smiles more than organs (and more than other words starting with "orga".) Very rarely do I think about me, or if I might be enjoying myself in my own fantasy.
How I behave around men. Not all men, just new men. Strange men. When I'm in front of a strange man I flirt like a hungry hooker. I know this because for a few years at work I was the official "Welcome to our department" person, the one who said "this is where the break room is," but if I were greeting a new employee with a Y chromosome, by the time I got to the break room it was:
"My, you are really handsome. Here's the break room."
"Well, of course you're married, who wouldn't snap up someone like you? Here's the break room."
"You do look like you're from Colorado, you have that nice open face. And the muscular arms. And I guess that big chest is from breathing at that high elevation? Here's the break room."
(Well, I might not have said the last one, but I distinctly remember the first two, and other even more embarrassing comments. All, truly, right outside the break room.)
I suppose strange men scare me a little, because who knows what they're like, and random compliments rock them off their pins and get them on my side. And as of today, zero harassment lawsuits have come my way, phew.
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I see a future for aged me as the most welcoming tour guide outside the break room at the senior living community, where I will do my best to make all the Y chromosomes smile and be happy. I suspect I should really detach my happiness from anyone else's before then.
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