Apparently, I appeal to a generation far removed from my own.

I was in the grocery store when I passed by a man in the aisle.

He was older, my dad’s age, with black hair the reached his lower back, and that crazed look of people who have been doing too many drugs for the past thirty years.

Basically, Ozzy Osbourne’s twin.

He caught my eye and unsteadily but quickly lurched closer to me.

“Whooooa! I LOVE your hair!” He  spoke in a British accent, and reached out to touch it.

I get that sometimes, on rare days like today when I actually blow-dry the crazy mess. “Oh!” I said, surprised and intrigued by the accent. “Thank you!”

“And your EYES! and your smile, and whooa, you just MESMERIZE me!” His high-as-a-kite expression and the fact that he literally couldn’t tear his eyes away from me was too comical, and hit me before the idea that maybe I should keep walking did.

“I’m a musician, and I have a girlfriend, but I like to flirt, do you have a ring, you should have a ring, you should be married, someone should marry you!”

I laughed, then feeling awkward, tried to think of an escape route.

Then my escape route presented herself– she walked up and hugged him close, and in a Southern accent, drawled, “Honey, are you hittin’ on the girls again?” She laughed and smiled.

She had long, overly dyed brassy blonde hair that hung to her waist, and skin that led me to believe she had done as many drugs as he had. Actually, it was the rainbow beanie complete with propeller on her head that tipped me off.

I laughed and said to her, “You got a good one, there!”, and then ran away.

Still wondering where the guys my age are. And why THEY aren’t hitting on me.