My Lucky Jeans at the O-asis. BTW do you know how hard it is to get a good pic of your own ass?

I really wanted to give the three girth challenged girls at the next table the benefit of the doubt. I know a redneck bar is not the place to go looking for brainiacs, but I wanted them to have something going for themselves so badly. The weight issue is not as big a deal in this place anyway. As I told my husband, “Just don't ask anyone when their baby is due.” The girls are chatting before the band starts and overhearing conversations is my forte, an occupational hazard I suppose. 

“So they put these weights on your hair and it makes it grow longer” says the dark haired one in the black tent top. Everyone at the table listens with interest. I make brief eye contact with the prettiest of the girls, short hair, absolutely lovely face, and I see in her eyes she knows this is BS but these are her friends. They all sip bright colored drinks in tall glasses and rarely glance around the room at the men, although there are three men at the bar right in front of us about the right age. The men however are looking at me. 

I know you are all going to find this hysterical, but when I left my Kentucky home for the Baptist college I had ambitions to be a missionary, and no, I do not mean the position, I mean the occupation. I got over my religious ambitions but never the belief that I can fix the unfixable. I am the idiot that thinks if you just explain things correctly everyone will see the error of their ways and do right. In my heart I want to go tell the pretty fat girl that she can change her life if she wants to but first she has to stop hanging out with other fat girls and find friends that can challenge her. I then want to tell the skinny 25 year old that this girl could be his dream come true. I didn't do any of that however but I did have words with the 25 year old. My husband had just left for the loo when he walked right up and into my personal space. “Where's your man gone?” says Mr Suave. 

“Toilet” I said.

“Well if you ever need anything, anything at all, I'm available.” I give Mr. S high marks for confidence and low marks for underestimating his target. 

“Darlin',” I tell him in my sexy voice, because I never mess with a man's ego, “I'm old enough to be your mother.” I almost say grandmother but don't because it might be true. 

“Age doesn't mean a thing. You are hot.” Now don't think that I'm not flattered by the boy. He's cute, kinda skinny, but in 15 or 20 years he might be interesting. Not to me however, not now, not ever. I run my hand lightly down his cheek and look into his eyes briefly, and then over his left shoulder. He turns quickly anticipating my rather large husband might be standing behind him. He is back at the safety of the bar stool when my husband returns. He took the quick chance of grabbing my hand when my husband left the next time. His hand is hard and calloused, not the hand of a man who sits behind a desk all day. I give him my sweetest smile and let him go home thinking he could have had me if my man hadn't been there. 

I tell my husband the story when we get to the car. “You mean the skinny one?” He probes for detail. I think about the fat girl's eyes as I tell him. She kept staring at me all evening too. She saw the boy hit on me, and the look on her face was not envy but admiration.  I want to go back and get her and take her on as a project. I want her to have a man who looks at her the way my husband does at me. I want her to be standing in a bar when she is my age having a inappropriate flirtation with a cute guy. Of course when I was 14 I wanted to convert all the jews to christianity. Sigh. Maybe my husband is not so far off the mark when he says I am secretly a hopeless romantic. I still think he's just projecting, but maybe I'm wrong. Now if you will excuse me I'm going to take a nice hot bubble bath. Seems like I might have overdone it when I was trying to impress the 25 year old by getting low, low, low, low, low.