Over a month ago, Mr. Mojo was telling me about a man he and Rob work with who has the reputation of hitting on every woman he meets. Seriously, Every Woman. I had never met this man, and I remember saying to Mr. Mojo, "God, what if he doesn't hit on me when I meet him? That would be embarrassing." Mr. Mojo assured me that the dude would hit on me. In fact, I believe his exact words were that this dude "hits on anything with two legs" and that it was "guaranteed" he would hit on me. Anything with two legs. Guaranteed. Remember that.

A few weeks after this conversation, Rob and I went to yet another flirtian party. And on the way home, I asked Rob who the weird-looking dude was who sat on the sofa all evening looking bored.

"Oh, that was [Hit-On Dude]."

"What?! That was HIT-ON DUDE? No, that can't have been Hit-On Dude."

"Yeah, it was."

"Are you sure?!"

"Yes. Why?"

"He didn't hit on me! Shit. He didn't fucking HIT ON ME."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mojo said that guy hits on anything with two legs. But he didn't hit on me!"

"He probably just didn't see you."

"Rob, I sat TWO FEET from him for, like, twenty minutes!"

"Oh."

"DAMMIT. He didn't hit on me. What the fuck?!"

As you might imagine, my confidence was shattered by this devastating rejection. Granted, after seeing the guy, I can't say I really want to be hit on by him. First of all, he's got to be twice my age. That alone isn't a problem, as there are plenty of men twice my age whom I would be more than happy to have hit on me. (Harrison Ford. Pierce Brosnan. Nilbo.) But Hit-On Dude looked totally skanky, very post-hippie mountain man-esque. Which I'm sure is somebody's type, just not mine. But the fact that I wouldn't want him to hit on me is overshadowed by the fact that he did NOT hit on me. Skanky post-hippie mountain man didn't hit on me! Skanky post-hippie mountain man who hits on ANYTHING WITH TWO LEGS (GUARANTEED!) didn't hit on me! Again I say, What the fuck?!

I replayed my conversation with Mr. Mojo and remembered that he had said this man hits on every woman he meets. Aha! We were never introduced, so technically he never met me. Of course, it seems unlikely that a man who hits on anything with two legs would follow social etiquette, would insist on waiting for a formal introduction and polite handshake before suggesting my clothes would look better in a pile on the floor. But sometimes we must convince ourselves of these things in order to keep from crying ourselves to sleep at night, mmkay?

So Friday evening Rob and I were getting ready for another party, a party I happened to know that Hit-On Dude would be attending. My goal for the evening was to be hit on by this man. Not that I actually wanted to be hit on by him, mind you, but I sure as hell didn't want to NOT be hit on by him. So I made Rob promise to introduce me to the dude. I could not imagine that, having officially met me, he wouldn't then hit on me, given that he hits on anything with two legs. You know, guaranteed. But just to be safe, I did what any (slightly desperate) woman would do. I brought out my secret weapon. I brought out The Skirt. (To understand just how desperate I was to be hit on by this man, you need to know that I never wear skirts. Of all my parts, I like my legs the best. But, perhaps for that very reason, I rarely show them.) This skirt in particular I only break out for special occasions. Like our anniversary. Or, you know, when I'm going to a party with hopes of getting hit on by a skanky post-hippie mountain man. I figured that if Hit-On Dude hits on anything with two legs, then I was going to make damn sure he could sufficiently SEE mine.

We arrived at the party. Mr. Mojo declared us the hottest couple in the room which I took as proof that The Skirt was indeed working. And then, suddenly, there was Hit-On Dude. Standing in front of me. Rob stepped up to make the introduction. "Hit-On Dude, this is my wife Kelly."

I smiled, perhaps a bit more beamingly than usual. "So nice to meet you," I said, perhaps a bit more gushily than usual.

Our eyes met briefly. He extended his hand and I shook it as sexily as one can shake hands. He said flatly, "Nice to meet you." And then he walked away. Son of a bitch WALKED AWAY.

I cast Rob a dejected look and muttered, "What the fuck?!" He suggested that Hit-On Dude just doesn't hit on married women. Yeah, like a man who hits on anything with two legs gives a shit about marital status! Still, it did seem likely that he wouldn't hit on me with Rob standing right there, so later I positioned myself, sans husband, in Hit-On Dude's circle of conversation. I may perhaps have jutted my hip and placed one leg slightly forward in the manner of a supermodel. Not saying that I did, just that I might have. But Hit-On Dude never even looked my way.

Later in the evening I lamented over the whole thing to Mr. Mojo. He diplomatically offered that Hit-On Dude didn't bother hitting on me because he knows I'm out of his league. Yeah, like a man who hits on anything with two legs gives a shit about leagues! I reminded Mr. Mojo that he himself had told me it was guaranteed I'd get hit on. Guaranteed! His exact word! Mr. Mojo then conceded that the situation was perplexing.

Actually, I believe his exact word was "dire".