Are these baristas flirting with me? No, they’re just being friendly. Barbara, I think they might be flirting with you. After three kids and six years this particular sense is a little dull.
I narrow my eyes shrewdly. I try to locate the ancient muscle once used for this sort of interpretation.
Why on Earth would the baristas be flirting with me? Do I not look like I came in with three kids? They’re going to be embarrassed when they realize. I mean, my kids are way on the other side of the coffee shop, but I’m pretty sure my current outfit screams, “Mother of three!”
He knows my first name because he made my coffee and he wields it now a little boldly. Am I on Facebook? Yes, I say dubiously. What’s my last name? I consider shutting him down with a, “Misses …”
But I don’t. I walk away with great purpose to the table of unsupervised children in the corner and claim them.
This perception of mine is a little rusty from disuse and I have to think about it carefully, parsing all sentences. I conclude that I was being flirted with. I was being flirted with in my Mom jeans and an old stained T-shirt. Maybe I do look good today? After all, I showered.
At any rate, whatever warm fuzzy feeling of flattery is slowly working its way up from my toes is shut down about knee level. There is a Cheerio incident.
I summarily pack up the children. I make a discreet note of Lake Cheerio to the cashier and slip out the back.
In light of events I recalculate. There was no way they could be flirting, which leads to the only other logical conclusion…
I am a narcissist…
In Mom jeans…
Who overthinks things.
Also, they work for tips.