So, not only have I been feeling the weight each of my 41 years lately I've also been counting wrinkles and grainy skin and horrors...three stubborn white hairs that seem to be paving the way towards an Indira Gandhi hairstyle. Yikes! Add to that the fact that I feel like I should be walking around with a gunny sack around myself anyway...maybe with eyeholes cut out. If I didn't have a philosophical disagreement with burqas I'd wear one to hide myself. But I digress *puts the violin away* even though self-pity is terribly addictive.
So Saturday evening I decided to meet B at the main train station Cornavin, and was walking around in the underground shopping place. All the shops were closed and I was trying to find the restroom. As I ducked into the space between the escalators and a shop I heard someone say "excuse me" in a french accent. I stood aside to let me pass.
Nice looking guy, early 50's maybe (oh for the days when early 50's was ancient to me. *slaps herself for self-pity infraction*), brown leather jacket and interesting salt n' pepper hair.
Instead of passing by, he stopped.
"Hi," I said trying to see past him to figure out if the restroom door to see if it was open.
"I want ask you if maybe you take some drinks with me."
I am not sure my open-mouthed surprised look is too attractive, still he persisted.
"Thank you but no..." I mumbled.
"Maybe another time? I give you my card?"
"No thanks, really." (I refused to trot out the sati savitri response (at least to me) of, I am married, Hai Allah, mujhe cchero nahin. I just don't want to be picked up outside a restroom for god's sake..by anyone)
"Where you from? Beautiful hair. Very pretty."
"Thanks, but I've got to run...to meet my husband."
He stepped back spreading his hands in that oh-so French way. Then he shrugged.
"Bye," he called after me.
B met me outside Starbucks. It was fucking cold and I was wearing cute shoes with no socks since I was coming from the conference.
"Hey, good thing you're on time. I could've been knocking back drinks with some interesting Frenchman, as he whispered cool French things to me," I said.
Yeah sure I would. Apart from my married status, and darn it! I love the guy, if I was ever to be picked up it would have to be in a cooler place. Of course, B would bust a gut laughing if I recounted the entire weird conversation.
What *is* the hit rate of that poor guy trying to pick up women in the underground metro shopping of Cornavin? Maybe he's having drinks with some other woman as we speak...err...as I write this.