I was minding my own business checking my text messages on the patio at the teen dance club, when some petite darling invaded my personal space, leaned in, and stretched out her little hand:
Oh my god, colored braces...
Can I get your numberrrrrr?
Blindsided, and having already had a shot (before I went into the club), the best playful stall I could think of was: Why, what are you going to do with it? It sounds stupid, but the delivery and facial expression were good enough.
Becaaaaaaause! You're cuuuuuuuuuute!
So we exchanged numbers, she asked my name first, and I got her female opinion on how long my newly single chick friend should wait until she goes back into the dating arena. Bla bla bla, and so what's your name?
What cruel god lobbed this adolescent grenade into the bunker of my being? You know how I feel about youthful names! Knowing that I get to give her a nickname new to my ears, like Maddie or Mad instead of Christie or Chris, totally adds half a point to her overall score.
The worst quality of girls her age is flakiness, so you always qualify them by proclaiming your suspicion about whether they're fake or not, and how you don't have time for flaky girls. Even better, her circle of friends was there and seemed to welcome me -- that's the second-biggest hurdle.
She's not stunning, but she's definitely cute. Even if she flakes, she gave me enough pre-selection and age-proofing value to make a good impression on any of the other girls on that crowded patio.
Text me, OK?!?!?!!!
I will.... Maddie.