Someone Else's Prince Charming

I was waiting to cross the street, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of blog entries, Pilates and massive salads, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. He was on the other side of the road, waving wildly. Suddenly, despite the red light, he starting running through the intersection, dodging traffic, toward me.

He spoke with his hands, which did little to distract me from the tie-dyed neon mess of a tank he was wearing. All that was missing was his fanny pack. I'm sure he just forgot it at home. And while I'm not opposed to scruff, his was more "sleazy midlife" than "cast-of-Lost ruggedness." In his thick European accent, he enthusiastically asked me (while nodding his head, a sneaky strategy when trying to convince someone to agree with you):

"Would you like to take me somewhere? I am a baby-making machine."

I have nothing against babies. I quite like them. And I hope to have some of my own one day. But I'm not sure I could have someone who wears a neon shirt typically described as a "wife-beater" as the father of my children. Nor could I explain to my young'uns that their daddy first met me by jaywalking. I cannot endorse lawbreaking. Besides, I'm old-fashioned; I would prefer to be taken rather than do the taking.

So I smiled and politely declined the opportunity. Fortunately, a lovely lady in a lovelier dress than mine arrived at our little corner.

"Ah, she's nice, no?"

I had to agree.

The light changed. I walked away. And even while waving goodbye to me, he was eying his new object of infatuation.