I was standing in line at Chik-fil-A the other day because, in my constant quest to hydrate, I was going to get diet lemonade. Since it's non-caffeinated and non-alcoholic, it's not my beverage of choice, but I knew I needed fluids of that type and despite B's constant lectures about how Splenda is either going to give me Alzheimer's or a brain tumor, I drink it anyway.
There was this guy in front of me, probably early twenties, wearing khakis, a white shirt, a tie, and a name tag for FYE. He was waiting on his food, and staring off into space. I immediately ranked him about a 5 (straight up average) on my Dude Hotness Scale (I automatically rank every guy I meet, attractiveness-wise, on a 1-10 scale. This guy would have probably made it to 6, but he was a member of the Unfortunate Facial Hair List, because he was trying to grow a beard, but it just wasn't working out for him.) While I was discreetly studying his sad little beard, this chick tapped him on the shoulder and asked to speak to him. She was probably 18-- pretty girl, from what I could tell, but SUPER high maintenance. Tons of makeup, tons of hair products, big boobs in a tank top, and expensive sunglasses (that she was wearing despite being inside the mall).
Without ever looking up from her Blackberry, on which she was furiously typing, she said to him, "So, um, my friend over there? Her name is Kendall? And she thinks you're really cute? So, I'm, like, going to give you her number? And you can, like, text her? And, like, get to know her? And then maybe you guys can, like, talk or go out or something?"
The dude stammers for a minute and says something I can't hear.
The chick (still texting) says, "Hey, Kendall, come here."
Kendall, who is a less pretty version of the sunglasses-inside girl heads that way. Sunglasses says, "So, I, like, told him you think he's cute?"
Kendall does the high-school girl squeal, covers her face and runs away. Sunglasses (still texting) gives the dude Kendall's number, says, "Text her? Like, soon?" and wanders off.
This is where I step in.
I tap the guy on the shoulder again. His name tag says "Bryan." (Unfortunate spelling, by the way.) We have a conversation that goes like this.
ME: Bryan, how old are you?
ME: Okay. So, I've got over a decade on you physically. Mentally, it's probably closer to two. We need to talk, Bryan.
Bryan: (Looking nervous, mumbles) Okay.
ME: Have you ever read Jane Austen's work?
Bryan: (Looking more nervous.) Um. No.
ME: You should. Because back in the day, you didn't get to know somebody by TEXTING? How in the hell do you get to know somebody by TEXTING??? If you don't want to talk face to face, you write long, arduous letters, about your tortured love affair, and how beautiful you imagine her face looks in candlelight! You ask to court her, and then you spend hours walking round and round the parlor after dinner while being properly chaperoned! You don't text! (I had had a lot of caffeine that morning.)
Bryan: Um. I'm sorry?
ME: You know that girl is trouble, right? And not the good kind. She's the screw-you-once-then-stalk-you-forever kind. She will lure you to her house when her parents are out then spend the next two years posting psychotic comments on your FB and telling everybody that she miscarried your baby, whether that ever actually happens or not. She will jump out of the back of your Toyota Corolla crying her eyes out and brandishing a knife. Do you hear me, Bryan?
Bryan: (Now looking terrified.) For real?
ME: Abso-fucking-lutely. You have been warned.
Bryan: Do you know her?
ME: Nope. Never seen her before. But I know teenage girls.
Bryan: (His food arrives.) So are you, like, a counselor?
ME: I am today, darlin'. I am today.
I probably saved that boy's life.