Non-Hobos Love Me

The entire Internet should hear this tale of glory from my morning commute:

In Which I Get Hit on By Two Non-Hobos

Let’s be clear: Hobos love me. This pretty much goes without saying.  But, having apparently passed the flower of my youth, I no longer turn the heads of non-hobos on the regular. I broke a streak on my way home from a work event late a couple Saturday nights ago, when a young lad stopped me and said he just wanted to say hi, because he thought I was cute. My first thought was, “Who are you talking to?,” followed by, “Oh, you’re talking to me? YOU’RE cute,  sir. You are. Like an adorable puppy in a collegiate letterman jacket. I’m old enough to be your slightly older sister.” It must have been the first indicator that I’ve gotten my groove back, though, because I had this AMAZING interaction on my way to work this morning.

I see two familiar strangers about to smoke a cigarette on the park stairs leading to my metro station, a popular hangout for the young-ish adults in my neighborhood. I give them the nod of faint recognition and say good morning on my way down the stairs.

Dude 1: “Good morning. You’re looking beautiful today.”

Me: “Aw, thanks. Have a good day!”

Dude 1: “Hey, are you married yet?”

Me: “Merp? Yeah, I’ve been married for like 10 years.”

Dude 2: “Aw, that’s too bad; I was going to ask for your number if you weren’t married. Your husband’s a lucky man. You guys got any kids yet?”

Me: “Yeah, I actually have a new little guy; he’s six months old now.”

Dude 2: “Oh, congratulations! I have a daughter that age too, born in July. And my wife’s expecting again this summer.”

Congratulations, Dude 2. Congratulations.

Now, to be clear, I didn’t say that I’d gotten my groove back enough to be hit on by classy gentlemen. But that’s a grand total of three non-hobos in two weeks, so I’d say I’m well on my way to greatness.

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