A nice big slice of Key Lime Pie
Anyway, I'm talking to Bob. Bob is an electrical contractor, brought in for a major project at the college. He's a really nice guy, almost from central casting: a great, personable, mostly bald New Yorker in his late 50s or early 60s. And there's a bunch of us at the end of the bar, just shooting the breeze, shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings.
The beautiful Herself comes into the bar. She taps me on the shoulder, says hello, we chat for a while. She goes down the bar to socialize with some other folks, and I turn back toward Bob.
To Bob, I am a hero.
Bob compliments me for a while on my magical abilities to draw women. I let him believe it. We keep chatting, and about half an hour passes. A very pretty young redhead comes up to the bar to order drinks. We're friendly acquaintances, so she says hello, I say hello, "how you been", that's about it. She gets her drinks and goes. I turn back.
To Bob, I am a god.
Leave aside for the moment that Bob has drawn a very wrong conclusion. Leave aside even that I need to become a collegiate womanizer like I need a hole in the head. (In fact, a hole in the head would probably be considered minimal damage if I were to try.)
Every now and then, it feels good to be a god. And every deity starts with one follower. (Bob's theory, by the way, is that my mysical Casanovan powers rest in my full, if greying, head of Irish hair. Maybe he's right - God knows it's not my smooth moves with the ladies.)
Why am I telling you this story?
Like the old joke, I'm telling everybody.