Flirting

At first, I wasn’t sure if he was flirting with me. 

After 20 years of marriage and a social life that mainly involves other married people, my radar’s a little rusty. Plus, with a still-fresh hip scar and slightly swollen leg, I haven’t been feeling at the peak of attractiveness. Frankly, at 55, I no longer consider myself flirt-worthy. I guess my self-esteem has been on the down slope.

He’s about my age; divorced with grown kids. Pleasant looking. Both of us in above-average physical shape. Neither of us, stunners.

The first time I thought he was just inquiring about my healing hip. It felt thoughtful and good. The second time was brazen.

“Look at that smile!" he said, loud enough for by-standers to hear. "Do you smile like that for everyone or just when you see me?”

I should have been embarrassed, even put off. But my heart beat faster. My smile took up half my face.

I am a feminist: hard wired to reject any suggestion that my capabilities and rights are not equal to that of a man. I detest and will rebuff any demeaning, tasteless or otherwise disrespectful gesture. I’d also like to believe that, as a happily married heterosexual woman, I don’t care about the attraction of other men. 

Maybe it's because I am in a secure, satisfying marriage, where the balance of power is even, that I can enjoy the hokey attention of a man other than my husband who finds me attractive. After all—and as corny as this may sound—I don’t dream of attention from anyone other than F.  

But when it comes along, my ego does a jig. And that’s not politically incorrect. It’s human.