Learning to Flirt

I’ve always been unsure of where I stand on the attractiveness scale. Being a 6’5″ fatgirl kind of keeps you guessing. This insecurity over my own attractiveness makes it really hard for me to flirt. I’m just no good at it, not at all. So when a man blatantly and repeatedly flirts with me, even in jest, it throws me off my game.

And this year, at the bowling alley, my game is way, way off. Never before has my sexuality and appearance been such a topic of conversation with the bowlers.

I should have known something was in the air the very first night of the bowling season, when Opie proposed to me. This is the same Opie who on the first night of the 2002-2003 season proclaimed that he had gotten divorced over the summer and it was the best thing that ever happened to him. After I politely declined his numerous proposals, he asked me out on a date. I was dumbfounded and had no idea what to say. So I didn’t say anything.

Things have gotten progressively weirder. They complain when I wear too many clothes, they complain that I’m distracting when I wear too few clothes. They want to see my tattoos and feel my hair. They want to know if I’m really reading dirty books up at the bar while they bowl. They want me to go out with them or take them home with me.

It’s all completely eighth grade. But, I never got this in eighth grade or ninth or well, ever. I’ve never been the focus of such juvenile flirtations. Since I never learned how to deal with junior high boys, my night will usually go something like this:

“I need some strength,” Todd will say.
“Huh?” I say looking up from the book I was reading.
“Show me superman.”
“What?”
“Show me Superman.”
“You know about that?”
“It’s legend.”
“Oh.”
“Show me Superman.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“He hibernates for the winter.”

Twenty minutes later he’ll come back for another beer.

“Can I see Superman now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too cold for Superman.”
“I can keep him warm.”

Then I just blush, because I don’t know what else to say.

As crude as it all is, and as much as I’m embarrassed to admit this, I’m totally digging it. It makes me feel like a woman, feminine. I’ve had problems dealing with my lack of femininity my whole life. When you outgrow most every man in your life by the time you’re 12, you have a hard time believing you are feminine, despite your most masculine size.

But now, at 31 I find myself reveling in this newfound feminine feeling. I find myself blushing coyly, batting my eyelashes, and god help me, giggling. I’m sure I’ll grow tired of the crudeness, but for now I’m lapping it up, and trying to figure out this flirting thing.

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1 Comment

  1. Thomas 02.Dec.03 at 7:30 am

    Jodi, you’re not the only one who hasn’t figured out flirting.

    To help each other, you may want to suggest telling anyone who comes on too crudely that if they really wanted to see Superman, they should ask nicer and they just might get a peek. And call it a peek, because nothing is sexier than a peek when you want a good look. And if the asker is cute, cup the “girls” with each hand; Not only does it give a better view of Superman, but he may be distracted by seeing (anyone’s) hands on your bodacious ta-ta’s that they miss the tattoo altogether, leaving the asker to repeatedly ask for another glimpse.

    You’re sexy as all hell, you know that, right?

    Reply

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