I Got Hit On By A Wasted Grandma At 8 Am In Marin County

What did you get done this week?

I saw a post on Twitter—sorry, X— that restarted my PTSD panic attacks. It said that if a woman compliments a man’s hands, it means it’s on.

So, being the egomaniac narcissist that I am, I immediately reminisced about every time a lady has mentioned my beautiful hands, and I accidentally remembered one particular instance that I desperately tried to forget.

So, let’s relive my traumatic experience together and see if I can heal from it. And of course, this all happened while I was in the Bay Area. So let’s begin the therapy session, and you can hold my hand (actually, please don’t) through this.

I WAS A SITTING DUCK

It was a foggy morning in Marin County.

I, having nowhere to be — a recurring issue in my life — decided to take my perfectly dressed, perfectly combed-hair self down to the local coffee shop to ship some tweets while sipping my $12 latte.

I was responding to one of my overseas developers when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I glanced back, and she was one centimeter from my face.

“Is this chair available?”

The chair in question was the one at my table. And it wasn’t a chair, it was a booth. Which meant she wanted to sit with me.

“No.”

She sat down anyway.

Before I even saw her, a wave of liquor hit me so hard I almost blacked out.

When my senses returned, I looked up and saw a delicate, late-50s woman with a Louis Vuitton handbag, dripping in jewelry.

My fight-or-flight reflex kicked in. I tried to get the staff’s attention.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Literally the first thing she asked.

“I’m sorry for being so forward,” she said, “you are striking.”

But she tapped into my weakness. Compliments.

She reached out and clutched my hands. “You have the most perfect hands I have ever felt in my life.” I was smitten.

“Thanks, I have never done any physical labor in my life.”

“You never answered me. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I do now.”

I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman this drunk before. But I didn’t care. She found my kryptonite. Never-ending over-the-top compliments. She wouldn’t stop; she kept slurring her words deeper and deeper as the minutes went on.

I was a victim, and I knew it.

By now it was 8:42 am. I was a lost cause. She leans in, and I smell the rancid liquor deep in her breath as she whispers, “Let’s get outta here.”

I didn’t need any more information.

“My husband and I would love to show you a good time.”

:|

I was back in Florida that night.

TFM