Setting Happy Hour on Fire with My Hotness

I think I might be hot. And not in a menopausal way. I might actually be a sexy mama. My mind is blown.

Here’s what happened. You tell me if I’m imagining my newfound attractiveness.

I went to a happy hour to send off a now former co-worker. I was in my boring Friday ensemble of jeans and a turtleneck, with just a hint of powder and lip gloss on my face so I wouldn’t scare anyone.

My sparkly lips and I were enjoying some hummus at the bar when I was joined by a coworker. We had a passing knowledge of each other, but we weren’t besties. The conversation quickly felt like, well, not like a couple of coworkers getting to know each other.

It felt like…. A date.

I have not been on a date in 14 years. But, rusty as I am, I know a date when I see one. The flirty eyes, the questions about past and passions. A knee touch, a playful tap on the arm. I know it. It is like muscle memory.

Look, I don’t get out often, but when I do, there are a few beers consumed, pleasantries exchanged, and it all ends with people hurrying off to take care of kids, weed their garden; whatever. They are not pairing off for amorous adventures.

At one point, a few other guys joined our (in retrospect) intimate conversation. There was one guy new to the organization, and while we were chatting, I could see him VERY awkwardly mimicking what the original co-worker had been doing.

Him: So… what do you do with the group?
Me: Explaining what I do and how I do it.
Him: We have people in common. Names them.
Me: Crickets.
Him: Fumbling, awkward.
Me: Yeah. Ok.

Dude. This was pretty clear. Poor guy. I kinda felt for him. Not a smooth bone in his body. I was really glad when he moseyed along. My moment of awkwardness kind of clued me in to the fact that the one guy was really doing what Guy A was doing, but with a lot less finesse. A LOT.

By this point in the evening, I’ve had one guy plausibly hit on me and a second totally hit on me. WHO AM I?

I am going to confess something. I was floored, and elated. Here was this pretty good looking guy, flirting with me. Okay, he was hawt. Rakish smile, well dressed, smart, and charming. He could charm the pants off of you. But not me. My mom jeans are going nowhere.

And then it happens. He turns to me and says, “You have a beautiful smile.” Then he slides along into a conversation with the man next to him.

WHAT?

My heart stopped. Where did that come from? What did it mean? Sweet baby Jesus. Am I wrong? Am I right? Was he really talking to me, or was someone standing behind me? Nope. Just us chickens.

Luckily, a very drunk coworker stumbled up and saved me from, well, probably nothing, but I don’t know because I am a churning vortex of emotion. Someone good looking, other than my husband, thinks I am good looking! Desirable, even! In jeans and reeking of hummus, I am hot.

Good God, it’s an awesome feeling.

Not a, “let’s cheat on my husband” awesome, but a, “I am going to put that in my mind palace and reflect on it frequently from time to time.”

Monday should be interesting to say the least. Maybe I should strut in blaring “Sexy Back” by Justin Timberlake, give everyone a wink with my finger guns a blazin’ and revel in the fact that for one night I was not a mom…I was a sexy beast.

Written by Carrie Groves
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