Old Guys Who Flirt

I cannot account for my inability to recognize flirting. Quite possibly my Repressed Southern Protestant upbringing is to blame. Or maybe it was the inappropriate encounter of a sexual nature that I experienced at an early age that caused a part of my brain to shut off whenever a man approaches me with romantic intent. I really don't know. But the bottom line is this: part of my development as a healthy adult was stymied somewhere down the road. And I cannot discern a man's interest in me sexually.

Case in point: in November of last year, a man came into Planet Care to make a small purchase. He came through my line. And I was in a jovial and chatty mood. I asked whether he had big plans for Thanksgiving. He looked at me with great sorrow in his eyes and told me he'd just lost his son and he didn't think he'd be celebrating much. I stood still and focused on him completely, my heart melting a bit from empathy. I took his hand and I told him how very sorry I was. He quickly walked away so that I wouldn't see him cry.

Fast forward to Spring of this year. I was gathering shopping carts outside of Planet Care and he appeared: tall, olive complexion, virtually no hair left on his Charlie Brown-shaped head. He wore a red polo shirt unbuttoned to reveal a thick gold chain around his neck. He wore a bit too much after shave or cologne. He smiled broadly when he saw me. In his deep Jersey accent colored with Italian inflections, he asked how I'd been.

Good.

I asked how he'd been.

Getting by.

He asked how long I had been working at Planet Care. He asked whether I'd eaten lunch already. He asked about my husband. I'm divorced. He asked if I had a boyfriend and I said I did. He asked what my boyfriend does for a living and I told him. And all this while I was thinking, this guy is old and lonely and recovering from grief. So I was nice to him. As he was leaving he said, "Well, maybe sometime we can have lunch."

Boi-oi-oi-oi-oing! That's the sound the inside of my brain made as I tried to rapidly process the meaning of this remark. But I obviously didn't process it correctly because my response was something like, "Ok!" or "Sure!" or something intended to be dismissive without hurting his feelings. Had I not just told him about my boyfriend? This does not compute.

A week later, he appeared in my line at the checkout. He asked if I'd had lunch and I told him no, I'd just arrived. He asked if he could have my phone number so he could call me sometime. I uh, uh....

Damn it! I don't have any practice with this sort of thing! I went from being a bit of a wild child, flitting from boy to boy, never going out on more than one "date" to living with the man I was to marry - the man with whom I'd have children . I went from being divorced to making a series of very bad relationship choices, each one having particularly weird beginnings. In general, I initiated them. The ones that were initiated by men, I sort of washed into like a jellyfish. I did not particularly care to be involved with those men. But because they took an interest in me, I felt I must reciprocate.

Long story short, I really don't have experience with the whole song and dance that accompanies asking someone out on a date. It is awkward for me. I don't like it.

In my mind, I shrunk away from this man in Planet Care out of my discomfort. I told him I don't give out my phone number. He asked if he could call me at the store. I said we aren't supposed to take personal calls at work. I couldn't just say, "I'm sorry. I'm not interested." But eventually I managed to remind him that I have a boyfriend and I am very committed to him.

He said, "Oh, so you're steady?"

I nodded.

"I wasn't sure if you were steady."

I said something to the effect of "I am completely devoted to him." Or something equally melodramatic.

He nodded and quietly walked away. He returned to my line to buy a bag of nuts. As I was in the process of ringing him out he said, "Forgive me for the way I acted. It's the Italian blood in me." I told him not to worry.

I didn't want to encourage further pursuit. But I didn't want him to go away feeling bad. Which, I fear, he inevitably did.

This guy's a senior citizen. Granted, I'm not too far off from attaining that status myself. But for some reason after this encounter, the predominate thought in my mind was, "Do I look old enough to date him?" It is more than a little bizarre for me to contemplate how old I look. In general, I just don't care. But this encounter baffled me. I still don't understand it.

Conversely, another man comes in fairly regularly - another old guy. He's a bit shorter than me. He has a small frame and walks with a brisk and purposeful step. He never seems to focus on the people around him. He comes in to buy a copy of the New York Times. This and nothing more. But he always asks to have his newspaper bagged. In a paper bag.

This guy intrigues me. He has a nasal British accent, the sort you'd hear on Masterpiece Theatre. He barely speaks, barely makes eye contact, seems eager to get away from people altogether. So when he was absent for a while and suddenly returned, I sold him a newspaper and said, "And you like a paper bag with that, right?" To my surprise, he marveled at my recollection and praised me with the remark, "Good memory!" A tiny coup for me. Coaxing this man out of his shell momentarily to interact with another human being.

I saw him earlier this week. I was standing behind the customer service desk rather than my usual spot behind a register. He smiled and asked if I'd been promoted. I laughed and said, "That'll never happen. He said something to the effect of, "Well you're standing around looking all important as if you've been promoted."

"I do have that air of authority, don't I? But I'm still just a cashier."

He chuckled and said, "Well, good to see you again."

Small coup number two.

He came through my line yesterday with his usual purchase. He said, "So you've been demoted, have you?" I laughed and said, "Story of my life." I asked how his day was going and he said, "So far so good. But it's early yet. No telling what will go wrong."

"I hope I will not be the cause of anything going wrong for you."

"Oh on the contrary! With a memory like yours! Indeed not!"

I felt a rush of heat.

What the hell? Was I flirting with this old guy? Was he flirting with me? Is this how it feels to flirt? To have a bit of fun simultaneously teasing someone and complimenting them? I don't know. Again, my experience is limited. But I felt funny. And it was a good kind of funny. A funny that made me feel pretty and liked.

This funny feeling made me clumsy in my speech and actions. I staggered through the rest of our transaction. In my mind, he kissed me good-bye. And I felt a rush of excitement.

Don't worry, dear boyfriend of mine. This innocuous interaction will never amount to anything. It is just one fraction of the life experiences that I never fully experienced on a consistent basis. The sensation of it made me feel attractive and possibly desired by a complete stranger. It was fun. I kind of like it. It is non-threatening, playful and sweet. And it makes both parties feel a little happier. I think there is no harm in that.

Dear Repressed Southern Protestant: Take a hike.