comfortable

I tell you the following story not because I think it's cool to get hit on by strangers, but because I know this happens to all women, worldwide. I also know it generally has nothing to do with the woman, and everything to do with the man.

I think I'm approachable enough, but a lot of the time when I am approached by a guy, my approacher exhibits obvious and almost instant regret. Recently, after a 10 minute conversation during one of these incidents, I was informed that I am a one-dimensional, neurotic artist.

Why, thank you.

My approacher eventually abandoned me, though I don't blame him, and was soon replaced with another victim guy. He had no better luck than his predecessor. I'm sorry; if your name is Pierre but you are Armenian, and you own a business in Russia, well, I suspect you're actually just trying to traffick me, more than attempting to take me on a future date.

I know, hard to believe I'm not swooning.

In his defense, Pierre was actually rather polite, and he was unfortunately out of place at the Alley Cat, so I decided to give him fair warning that I didn't get a great review from the guy before him, and that he may very well be wasting his time on me if one-dimensional and neurotic isn't really his type. Pierre assured me he could not understand why the Chinese guy named Hank (seriously, I beg of you to pick less obvious fake names), would have called me one-dimensional.

"You are at least two, if not three-dimensional."

Why, thank you. You are too kind.

Last night a guy asked, "Is it always a battle when you meet a new person?"

Thankfully, someone was sitting next to me, and over time we had inadvertently established a system on how to handle such unwanted solicitations. We've begun an impromptu training program of sorts: once the guy realizes he is failing, we begin to offer suggestions on how to possibly succeed in future similar endeavors. The best part is that usually the guy will realize we are giving him advice, and most of the time will stay to listen and ask questions. We really don't want you to fail again:

Don't dance alone in front of me.

Don't form a line.

Don't put your hand on my leg.

Don't sit between me and my friend.

Don't pretend to be cool if you're a nerd. Nerdy will always get you further.

Don't assume I'm single.

Don't ask me for my phone number and my email address. Slow your roll.

Don't tell me where you were conceived.

Don't tell me you lived in Chicago when really you lived in Arlington Heights for six months before moving back to Wisconsin. At least be educated about your lies. Make up cross streets.

If we're talking ancestry and I ask you if you're part Cherokee, just know it's over.

And most importantly, don't ask to kiss me before you have asked for my name (or after, really). And when you do, and I tell you it's Marianne, just know that the phone number I gave you will not be putting you in contact with me so much as it will be putting you in contact with Joe at Little Caesars, or whoever is working the cash register that day. I hope you like pizza.