Mr. Bojangles...

We went to our favorite pizza joint last night...just the two of us! Babysitter, check. Happy and well-fed children with clean teeth, check. House picked up enough to not be embarassing, check.

We were in for a long wait, (and subsequently a visit to another spot but that's another story) but there was plenty to talk about. I think it would have been better having a chat with my hubby at the bar with a cold beer versus with my back up against the lotto machine (which was all lit up and subsequently very warm to stand against,) but the beer would come later.

In walks an old co-worker of mine from when I taught in Boston. I remembered him being very nice, a good guy. Single dad, not really on the prowl but probably really wanted to find a woman kind of guy. A bit dim, though. If I'm being honest.

So, in he walks. I picture myself going up to him (I picture things in my head like this sometimes before I do something, which in some cases like this one, is a really good idea) and introducing myself. I would say 'Hey! Did you teach at the Renaissance School downtown? Yeah, yeah. I worked with you in 1998, I think. Yes, yes. How are you? I remember you had a son, how's he doing? Oh yeah, I live in town, I'm here with my husband. (It wasn't going to be one sided but you know, to abbreviate it for you). Honey, meet so and so.'

So and so. I couldn't think of his name. I didn't want to struggle through that, and moreso I wasn't sure if I was interested in a quasi-reunion. I'm on date night. I missed chatting with my husband and I needed his attention as I was going to drop the suggestion that we needed a fence. So, I was focused. And I'm watching him and telling Jared about him and

oh.

oh.

He shook his parts a little. You know, the little leg thing that guys do to separate their man parts from their inner thigh that they think is totally inconspicuous and something we don't notice. And it's okay, really. I mean, it's 85 degrees out and his balls are sticking to his legs, I get it. But, it's when he went in with the hand jiggle for the 'Mr. Bojangles' , I started to think....perhaps I don't want to shake that hand. Maybe it's better if I just stand over here and watch the Red Sox All Star game.

He gets some popcorn. Greasy hands. (Yes, this is me. A bit OCD, but I have to think about this stuff. I don't want his popcorn-machine greasies on my hands.) Oooh, piece of a kernel stuck between some teeth. Fingers to pick it out. Sucking on fingers to get grease off. Perhaps I'm really all set with an awkward reu-

oh.

oh!

The hand has lifted the shirt to scratch the belly. It's not good. It's not good. Not at all. Pas du tout. Picture Matthew McConaughey lifting his shirt to scratch his belly and that think of something exactly the opposite of that. Oh dear. I now definitely do not want said reunion, nor do I want that hand touching mine. He walks to the other side of the bar. Leg move, again. My husband chimes in, "Was he always Joey Badda-badleg?" or something like that which has me in stitches. He, fellow-man, has picked up on the side-leg ball-release.

Now listen. I know that it's not a big deal. I know people pick their teeth and lick their fingers and scratch their bare bellies and adjust their private parts and it's fine. But I am, at some level, Jenny-Judger. Just pick your parts and your popcorn and your belly lint off at home. Really.

Where is that beer? My back is sweating against this lotto machine and I think Joe Bag O'Treats just figured out who I was.