Moose in the Kitchen

On Friday afternoon, somewhere between Sacramento and Tahoe, I learned that I still have it. You know, it. That which makes men crumble in your gorgeous presence. Or, in my case, makes 14-year-olds proposition you through a car window.

We were driving along, idly discussing the tasty flanks of cows, when a motion to my left made me glance over. In the car next to us was a kid, about 14. This is generous. He was probably more like 12. He had rolled down his window to brandish a sign. I figured the sign would say something like “Your back bumper is dragging behind you” or “Where’s the nearest McDonald’s? You people look like you appreciate your Mickey D’s.”

Instead, the sign read, “Call me!” with a number scrawled under it. I was somewhat flabbergasted. Because one, HELLO! I’m old enough to be your mother! (Well, technically. And, in his defense, I’ve been mistaken for a preteen before. Most notably by German tourists.) And, two, since when do kids have phones? Does his mother know he’s flirting with strange girls on the freeway?

From the one who clearly doesn’t appreciate my many and varied charms, “Oh, that sign’s not just for you. He’s waving it at everyone.”

Excuse me, but have you SEEN my awesome new hairdo? My dewy skin? My mellifluous laughter that closely resembles the cackle of a well-fed hyena? ‘CAUSE THAT SIGN IS TOTALLY FOR ME, BUSTER!

I have enough natural modesty to accept that perhaps the sign wasn’t just for me. Maybe he’s in hour number 37 of a long roadtrip and is amusing himself by trying to get his fellow motorists to call him up and chat. The freeway equivalent of discussing your gout with captive strangers on the bus. So I did a little research. Research that consisted solely of shifting my eyes three inches to the left. The car had pulled ahead of us and I watched for that sign. I watched carefully because my womanly (adolescent?) allure was on the line. No other car got the sign.

I was pleased. Pleased that I was being flirted with by someone who was born in the mid ’90s. This worries me. Note to self: Investigate crippling need for validation.

We passed the car again. His head was down. Apparently he was revising because as the car caught up to ours, a new sign appeared: “Call me, cutie.”

Crippling need for validation, pshaw. I’VE STILL GOT IT, BABY!*

~~~

* If “it” = the general appearance and mannerisms of a 13-year-old. And if “still” = acquired. Shoot, teenagers weren’t hitting on me when I was a teenager. OK, that’s not true. I once got a love note written on an octupus made out of construction paper. Which is totally awesome, if you think about it.