Riding in an elevator down to the lobby of our hotel in San Francisco the other night, I was accosted by a pair of older businessmen, probably in their sixties. This happens almost as regularly as Paris Hilton tweets about making a wish at 11:11 (a lot, like every day) so you think I’d be used to it, but I’m not.
“I like those,” the Patton Oswalt-in-twenty-years guy says to my legs as he stares at my polka-dot tights and I’m like, “…” but I’m nice and so instead when I speak it sounds more like, “Oh, thanks,” because that’s what I actually said despite what I want to say, which is nothing and a dirty look.
His friend, a Mark Cuban-minus-his-toupee-lookin’-mother-fella goes, “That’s good. Whatcha lookin’ at, her shoes?”
“Her stockings!” The Oswalt says back as our Mark shakes his head as if begging via ESP, please stop hitting on teens. Because, for the record, I look seventeen -maybe- on a good day and today was a big Fran Drescher circa The Nanny hair day for me (aka, my very Jewish roots were showing) so, not a good day.
Now Mark leans over. “Okay,” he says, “Those are hot.” And I’m polite and so I make this really small fake laugh just to get through the next six floors until the lobby.
There’s a pause and right before the elevator door opens, Oswalt-y wants to know, “So what are you up to tonight?” And then I get off the elevator without answering because ew.
Older dudes are constantly hitting me on. This is like my thing. Like some people understand math, some people are really good at video games and I get hit on by your grandpa.
But I’m sure your grandpa is a really nice guy or whatever.
A few weeks ago for example, at my father’s birthday party, he invited some past clients from his work that he had kept in contact with over the years. Many of them were Hugh Hefner-esque and as I sipped my Honest Ade (totally not a paid sponsor, I just really love that stuff f’real, f’real) several of them came over to me and tell me I’m “beautiful,” which is really lovely of course, but then they also ask me how old I am and lament on how my father wouldn’t be happy if they ever asked me out and again I’m like, ew.
I don’t know if this keeps happening because I dress like the old dudes’ mothers used to in the 60s (What? I have a thing for vintage!) or if it’s because they have really bad eye sight and totally can’t tell if I’m seventeen or seventy-one (for the record, right now as I type this, I’m twenty-four) or if they really are that gross, but ew.
And then I have to wonder how Anna Nicole ever did it.
Featured image courtesy of Drew Coffman.