In the hopes of keeping a truly comprehensive record of all the insanity, I am compelled to recall an event from last summer.
I was on the Red line heading north from Fullerton. Eamon was playing football once a week; the team meets at McGee’s for drinks after. I had decided to join them. By 10pm, it was clear Eamon was in for the long haul, so I bid him adieu.
On the train, I pass the time by playing Bejeweled on my cell phone. Through my jewel-sorting haze, I heard a man politely offer his seat to two woman so they could sit together. That was nice, I thought, swapping an emerald and diamond to score four in a row. He then plunked himself down next to me.
I play in silence for a few minutes, until he leans over conspiratorially. “Text message or a game?”
I look at him for the first time. He’s maybe late 20s, short blond hair. He’s stocky and muscle-bound and is wearing workout clothes. Earphones hang from his ears.
“Game,” I reply.
“Tell the truth,” he challenges me. “The best place to play is the pot, right?”
I assure him that the toilet is why God created crossword puzzles.
We chat some more of computer games, and he makes another bold assertion.
“Any guy will admit it: Between computer games and masturbation, they never get anything done.”
Hm. OK, I guess I’ll have to take his word for that one. I become aware that everyone around me is a bit uncomfortable with his not-so-appropriate line of flirtation. Me, I’m pretty unflappable. But I figure it’s time to put up a little wall.
“Yeah, my husband would probably agree with that.”
He does not blanch, but continues to talk about toilets, masturbation and computer games. I admit that I don’t play a lot of games, and that the one I’m playing is but a pale imitation of the game I used to love, Jewel Box, which had pretty graphics and soothing music.
“Oh, that’s what girls like,” he notes.
I bemoan the fact that Jewel Box is Mac based, so I don’t get to play it anymore. In fact, it’s been a good 10 years since I got to play it. It was quite a pleasant distraction when I was in grad school.
He stops, struck. Looks closer at me. “Wait, how old are you?”
I tell him I’ll be 39 next month.
A gasp from him. “Whoa. You’re a hot 39!”
I laugh and thank him, saying my husband would agree.
“Yeah,” he continues, chattering somewhat obsessively now, “You tell your husband I said he’s lucky. That’s good you’re married. You have to have kids. They’ll be very well-endowed.”
Truth to tell, I’m a busty lass. Still, it seems an odd reason to propagate, and an odd way to compliment a woman you’ve just met. I smile uncertainly.
“Yeah, your sons would be like tripods!”
Some of my trainmates are openly staring at him now. I’m not sure I agree that bustiness in the mother means a big package in sons. And while still I’m enjoying being unflappable, I’m still a bit relieved when he mentions his stop is Bryn Mawr, one precious stop before mine.
As I walk from the Thorndale stop to my house, I call Eamon to inform him that a socially inappropriate 20-something wants him to know his wife is a hot 39.
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