A few weeks ago, I was at a bar, playing shuffleboard with an underwear-model-looking guy, who I can only assume my friend-girl brought along to make me jealous. I was explaining the rules when suddenly a large group of extremely tall girls rushed us. They were almost all exclusively blonde, and spoke with a strong Midwestern accent. They swarmed me and basically claimed me as their mascot for the night, because I happened to be wearing their team colours.
You see, these girls formed a volley ball team from Oklahoma State, and I expect they had a good day of spiking V-balls at my Canadian compatriots. They were all in good spirits and quite well on their way to having an incredibly hungover last day of tournament. I have to say that between crossing borders, getting swallowed up in a group mentality, and riding their win to its natural, alcohol-fueled conclusion, these girls were incredibly touchy. As a gentleman (Yes! That's right, "a gentleman"!) I can't say I've ever been able to say this unironically before, but I felt completely objectified. I was passed back and forth between these excessively tall girls like a piece of meat. In vain, I tried to object nicely: "I hope you don't usually treat your mascot like this." Honestly, though, I did get used to it fast, though, once past the tenderizing phase.
Surrounded by a number of blondes with their hands in questionable places, I straight-out told them: "Ok. I gotta say, I've never felt more like a piece of meat before."
One girl quickly responded: "Yeah, yeah! We're girls we know how you feel. When you're in your twenties, you hate it, but as soon as you're over thirty, you can't get enough of it."
There was one girl among them that was different. She was the shortest girl on the team by a significant margin. Now, I've always had a thing for underdogs. I felt a kinship with the short one, so I stuck around her. She was more reserved, and kept her hands to herself.
Now, I was getting more and more inebriated as well, and, at this point I should mention, I'm great at saying the wrong thing at the wrong time -- especially when flirting. (I mean, during a romantic encounter, I once told a girl she had beautiful puce eyes. Puce! A colour the Oxford Dictionary defines as "a purplish brown; a flea-colour.")
Pulled back from the roving horde of Amazonians, we had our first real conversation of the night.
"So a noticed you're not going as crazy as your teammates."
"Yeah, I'm usually the voice of reason."
"Good stuff."
"I gotta say, I don't know how you put up with all the fondling."
"I'm getting used to it, but sometimes it is a bit too much."
"You should tell them."
"I'm pretty sure I made my stance clear, but they are not listening. I guess today is a freebie for you girls."
Awkward eye contact.
"I noticed you're not very touchy-feely. You probably could get away with it tonight." I winked at the short girl.
"Yeah, I mean..." I finish the sentence in my mind a few different ways, before she finally says, "My hands are probably too cold."
And here is where I inexplicably say, just as the rest of the team encroaches on our tete-a-tete, "What are you, a reptile?"
They start chanting "Reptile girl! Reptile girl!"
At that point, I left. Poor Reptile girl never had a chance.
