The kids and I just came back from a dinner out at Red Robin. Now, I’m usually pretty clueless about guys noticing me, and even me noticing guys for more than a casual “Yeah, he’s [hot/cute]” moment. I mean, I love me a handsome man to look at, but I don’t make a fuss or get worked up about it, nor do I have an innate ability to flirt with strangers. I’m a terrible flirt, really — in the “terrible-terrible” way, not the “terrible-cool” way.
There must be something in that family-friendly air, though, (with an emphasis on friendly) because I found myself staring at all of the hot young waiters. I mean, like practically drooling. There were a lot of them to look at, especially ours. Big brown eyes, long eyelashes. Curly dark brown hair. A muscular-but-lean bod he undoubtedly shapes with lots of reps between basketball practice and math homework. Polite with a cute, eager-to-please smile.
Okay, so he was just taking our order, but still. Later he asked me me twice — TWICE — “Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can get you?”
Hmmm. C’mon! He’s very mature for his age…he must be at least 18 or 19.
I also realized that under my black pant suit I’m wearing a top that has a sort of leopard print on it. Not exactly a cougar, but…
To top it all off, we didn’t order 2 lb. burgers with french fries or fried onion towers. Nope: a mac ‘n cheese with apple slices for T-Rex, a mini pizza and a side of carrots and dip for Drama Girl, and a small chili and side salad for me.
There are just so many things wrong here.