Friday night, a few hours after my demoralizing ass incident, I got all dolled up to go watch Shawn play a show. I didn't really feel like going but Shawn's band was headlining and a couple of my girlfriends were going and it was Friday night, so I rallied.
There is an area of downtown where bars and clubs line the streets and people in various stages of drunkenness congregate on weekend nights. Shawn's band played at a bar right in the midst of the entertainment jungle. As we swam through a sea of stilettos and popped collars, a fresh-faced babyman stopped me and said he needed to tell me something. Now, I've done my fair share of clubbing and I'm certainly no stranger to the excitement of bright lights and too many drinks on a Friday night, but years of choosing sports bars and live music lounges over dance clubs and trendier venues (and, you know, being married) has left me a bit out of practice when it comes to being hit on by random dudes. So I stopped. And babyman looked at me all wide-eyed and earnestly told me that I'm the reason men fall in love.
At which point I laughed harder than I have in a long time and thanked the universe for sending me a babyman armed with cheesy pickup lines on the same day that a douchebag shouted hateful words at me from his Porsche.
I spent some time thanking the universe for you too, lovely blog readers. Every single one of your comments made this fat-bottomed girl very happy. You are all the reason men fall in love (sorry, I can't help it. It's my new compliment.)