I’m not hot.

I know. It’s a shock to all of you. Someone who seems to be perfect in every possible way must be hot, right?

Nope. Not hot.

I mean, I’m not atrocious or anything. I have good hygiene. I don’t scare animals or small children. (Wait, bad example. They can smell my fear.) But I do not walk around in tight velour sweatsuits with words like “Juicy” and “Pink” bejeweled across my posterior. I do not have that, how you say, “boom boom pow.” My milkshake does not bring all the boys to the yard. (My apple dumplings, however, do bring the boys to my kitchen. But they are there for the dumplings, not for the boom boom pow. Just to be clear.)

No, most days you’ll find me in slacks and a cardigan. Perhaps some heels and eyeliner if I’m feeling sassy. But I never, ever, look like a lady of the night. Not even on Halloween. So why do I keep getting propositioned??!?!?! The funny part is, because I am not hot, I never know I’m getting propositioned until it’s over. So I don’t even get a chance to get offended and give a speech about respecting women because I don’t know what’s happening. It’s really quite unfair. I’m almost tempted to ask my propositioners to recreate the scene with me so I can get in a good slap and look of disgust before I stomp off. Almost.

But, blog readers, I do have a treat for you. For your reading pleasure: Tales From the Arco Station in Southeast Fresno….

There I was. Pumping my gas; minding my own business. Fully covered in black slacks and a teal cardigan and the prayers of a godly mother that I would always be a good girl. Suddenly, a young man in an SUV drives up. Music pumpin’, rims shining.

“Hey!” he calls out the window. “Hey sexy!”

Well, I think to myself, these aren’t my sexy slacks, so he can’t possibly be talking to me. In fact, when I put these slacks on this morning, I thought “Oh good, my chastity belt pants. I like these.” I like them because of the material, and not because of the fact that they have about 178 buttons, hooks, and zippers. So I ignore him.

“Hey! You’re the sexiest thing out here!” Wait. Is he talking to me? Maybe he has astigmatism or something.

“Um…are you talking to me?”

“You bet I am sunshine. How you doin’ today, you fine lookin’ thing?”

I look around at the other 7 people pumping gas as they observe the scene. None of them appear to be coming to my rescue. That’s ok, I think. I can handle this. “Look, I’m just here to get gas.”

“Oh I see, you married? Where’s your man at?”

“Nope, not married, just getting gas.” You idiot!?! Why didn’t you just say you were married?

“Well why don’t we get to know each other better then, sexy?”

“No thanks. Have a nice day.” Why is no one rescuing me?

“Do you have a sweet tooth? Would you like some chocolate?” Wait, is he referring to his skin tone, or does he really have chocolate? Because I could go for a Kit Kat…Heidi, no. He doesn’t have a Kit Kat.

“Have a nice afternoon.” And so I get in my car and leave, still kind of wishing I had a Kit Kat.

Why do men do things like that? How is that ok? And why did I tell him to have a nice afternoon? I want him to have an un-nice afternoon of getting yelled at by his mother for treating women like that. Also, why didn’t I have some amazing comeback to put him in his place? Why didn’t I make up a fictional husband (George Clooney-esque, of course) who could be there in 2 seconds with his collection of Civil War bayonets? Oh, I know. Because when put on the spot the first thing that comes to my mind, instead of a .22, is a COLLECTION OF CIVIL WAR BAYONETS.

Oh well. No harm done. I just wanted him to go away, and he did. But come ON, men of the world. Let both the hot and the un-hot pump our gas in peace!