Mr. Latino Daddy, the one who asked for my number but most certainly has a husband, leaned close to me this morning as I rested between sets on the seated row, placed his hand on my shoulder, and apropos of nothing said “Maybe you can keep me warm some night.”
Mr. Latino Daddy, who everytime he talks to me touches my shoulder or pats my back, is already earning a spot in my all-time Trouble Hall of Fame, and I haven’t even kissed him yet. I am doomed, I tell you, doomed. Which makes it so appropriate that I have a ticket for Aimee Mann this week. Now there’s a chick who makes me look like a cheerleader on crack, by comparison.