As you may or may not know, I have a VERY active imagination. This is often the reason I tend to eat pavement hard when I’m running. Instead of focusing on the ground, possible curb or even a minor crack in the sidewalk, I’m dreaming about what I’ll wear on my non-existent book tour.
Before my trip to Australia, I often found myself daydreaming about becoming a world-class surfer while visiting (literally I trip over NOTHING on flat GROUND, yeah, all right…surfing will be the ONE sport I’m likely good at), having a tan, muscled, blue-eyed, accented hunk of meat fall madly in love with me with only a glance. And let’s not forget the ever-popular dream of being “discovered” for my musical abilities (I don’t play any instruments and am deathly afraid of being on stage in front of people) and traveling the world in the quirkiest, most exciting band ever.
The extent of my issues are baffling, I know.
Long story short (too late), I arrived in Sydney and immediately fell in love with it. And to imagine, this was only the beginning.
Our first trek was up to Byron Bay, which was hands down one of my favorite Australian stops. Whether it was the spectacular beaches, laid-back surfer lifestyle or the smell of hippies everywhere, I was in love. Madly in stinking love (BO and pot).
Our first night out I’m raring to go and loving the eye candy around me. Honestly, you could be a cyclops with a hare lip and a humpback, but if you had an Australian accent? Putty in your hands, baby. Putty in your hands.
We grabbed some stools and started pounding the champagne as if it were free. Soon enough the sharks start circling. A nice, young fellow asked my friend to dance, which she eagerly agreed to. I was then stuck with his Dad. Or someone who appeared to be his Dad.
This dude was a big guy. But was wearing what appeared to be my 5-year-old cousin’s shirt from last summer. He’s drinking orange juice and assessing me like a wolf eyeing his prey.
I pounded my drink and quickly looked around for the nearest waitress to order the cheapest bottle. Foresight people, foresight.
Skin Tight Shirt took my friend’s empty stool and started chatting me up.
His opener? “How old do you think I am?”
Hmmm, well based on your tanned, lined face I would guess 48 but being the kind person that I am I answered, “Thirty five?”
He grinned like a Cheshire cat and announced he was actually 43. (Seriously dude? Stop the tanning. It looks like the blueprints of a house are etched under your eyes.) I then heard a 10-minute discourse on how he stays looking SO YOUNG.
I zoned at this point, though I’m sure there was lots of hilarity. He then said he was going to guess my age.
As a sidenote, I try not to ask men the age question. I know I don’t look my age, but when you guess 22 I know you’re lying. CLICK (lock of my chastity belt). I basically don’t think I will get an honest answer and my ego doesn’t need stroking. But I’ll tell you what does need stroking…looower….loooowwwweeerrrr….
Oops, daydreaming again! Where was I? Oh yes, he wanted to guess my age. What does this charming, intelligent fellow guess?
Thirty fucking nine! In the grand scheme of things thirty-nine isn’t old. I know this. But at the time I was TWENTY-EIGHT. No one wants to be told they look 10 years older than his or her actual age.
“I’m 28,” I tried to not to yell as my laser beam eyes tore his face apart.
“Oh!” he shrugged, “I’m not that good at guessing people’s ages.”
He then began to regal me with stories about how amazing he is, how pretty I am, asking about my “status,” giving me insincere, cheesy compliments, blah blah blah.
If masking eye rolling was a profession, I’d be a millionaire.
All I could do was eagerly scan the crowd for my friend to give her the “help me NOW” signal. I squinted and raised my head and willed my eyes to find her.
I slowly started tuning back into whatever story this moron was telling: he’s misunderstood, he’s really shy, he has no self-confidence, he never hits on stunners…
“What did you just say?” I asked him cautiously.
“Just that really everyone thinks I’m this manly man, but really deep down I’m an insecure guy. That’s why I never hit on the “stunnahs.” I feel I’m undeserving.”
The nerve! This douche had just spent the past 15 minutes buttering me up.
“So I’m not a stunner,” I stated, no emotion in my voice.
Not even SENSING the shit he had stepped in, he responded, “I mean, you’re reasonably attractive.”
Reasonably? REASONABLY attractive?
This was when the gasket blew. I’m still not even quite sure what happened. I don’t normally lose my temper, but when I lose it, we’re talking Bermuda Triangle lost. Before I knew it, I was standing, flailing my hands like a methed-up mime and getting in his face. My friend spotted my antics from across the room and ran over to see what the problem was.
She pulled me away laughing and proceeded to order me another bottle of champagne to calm me down. As we walked away I heard him asking his friend, “What? What did I say?”
“I didn’t even think it was possible for you to lose your temper,” my friend giggled. “That was fun!”
If someone you want to bang asks you how old you think they are, you guess a few years younger than you really think. ALWAYS.
If you tell someone they look a decade older than they actually are, cut out the middle man, go buy some lotion and a nudie mag and have yourself a swell night.
As an aside, when total strangers tell me they are so NICE or so WHATEVER, I think the opposite. Whatever you SO are, people who get to know you will realize this. Hence, no need to state it.
If you are hitting on someone and stupid enough to try to impress them with how insecure you are (always such a turn-on), at the very least DON’T tell them you never hit on beautiful women WHEN YOU ARE HITTING ON THEM.
Seriously, he didn’t even have the booze to blame it on. He was drinking friggin’ juice like out of a juice box.
If this were the men Australia had to offer, I was going to be drinking way more than expected.
And I was expecting to drink a lot!