Dear Mr. Creepy

Dear Mr. Creepy,

Thank you so much for your recent comment, “Lady, you’re looking better than a grilled steak on a Saturday!”  However odd I found your comment to be, my ego appreciates your admiration.

At first, I was surprised by your presence as I was pumping gas this morning at the Shell station.  Were you hiding behind one of the pumps, you clever little sneak?  Or perhaps, you stooped behind a trashcan waiting for your chance?  Were you watching me the entire time I filled my 18-gallon tank?  I must admit that worries me a little.  You appeared as if from nowhere, so maybe I wasn’t paying attention to you as I should have been.  I usually plaster on my fight face when I notice a creepy stranger staring at me, so good for you for being so cunning.

I must admit, I am not sure how I feel about being compared to charred meat.  Yours has to be the strangest compliment I have ever received.  Did you mean your comment to be a compliment?  Do you enjoy grilled steak on a Saturday?  Does the sight of seared beef make you happy? Or should I be using more sunscreen?  Has a summer in the sun left my skin looking charred, crispy around the edges, reminding you of summer barbecues?  Do you often compare women to grilled meat?  Perhaps you are protein deficient.  If you are feeling lightheaded from hours spent sneaking around gas stations, you may want to eat something.  I wouldn’t want you to pass out while waiting for Mrs. Creepy.

Sadly, I must tell you that nothing can come of our mutual appreciation.  I am a happily married woman; married to a man who does not sneak around gas stations.  Also, you are old enough to be my grandfather.  Not that I turn up my nose at May-December romances, to each their own, right?  But I am not looking for a new romance.  I will be enjoying the steak dinner I married for many, many years to come.

Don’t lose heart though.  I am sure that clever meat line of yours will eventually work on some poor, unsuspecting woman.  Maybe she’ll be pumping gas at that very same gas station.  Your eyes will meet across the parking lot and the chemistry will sizzle.  Maybe she will think you are the mashed potatoes to her steak.  Hopefully, for your sake, she carries A1 rather than Mace in her purse.  Dream big, Mr. Creepy, dream big!

Sincerely,

The Queen

P.S.  What is the strangest compliment you have ever received?  Tell me all about it in the comment section below this post.


28 thoughts on “Dear Mr. Creepy

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