Recently, I have noticed a change in the way I'm
treated as a woman, and it's maybe the most fascinating, hilarious and awesome
phenomenon I've yet experienced.
When my fellow old-broad friends and I go out for
"girl's nite," (that term makes me barf), the young male servers act as though they are
obliged to work for their tips by flirting with us.
I LOVE THIS SO MUCH.
That's right, ladies. If you can just keep yourself
from cutting off some dude's wiener in a fit of woman-rage before the age of
40, eventually, some poor 24-year-old college kid is going to have to smile and coyly ask
you for your I.D. when you order your glass of chardonnay, even though you are
clearly old enough to teach him how to use a rotary phone. He eyes will flash in that come-hither fashion that you haven't seen from a man in years. He will pretend that he doesn't notice your neck skin might drag in your bowl of soup. He will be forced to act as though he doesn't see your crows-feet, age spots or your middle-aged paunch.
And why is he doing this? He is doing this for money. OH, YEAH. I have actually arrived at the age when it is possible to wave a few dollars in a dude's face in exchange for some much deserved empty flattery.
It is literally the best thing ever.
