Well, I didn’t know I should feel bad about it until you said something.

On Saturday night, Coleman, Joel and I had a date at Howl at the Moon, a piano bar in downtown Indy. We met my bffs ‘Treydrienne’, (That’s ‘Trey’ and ‘Adrienne’, who are getting married in November. Clever name, right?) , Treydrienne’s family, and our friends Michelle and Christy. Treydrienne had come all the way from Nashville to visit their family for the weekend.

Thus, Howl at the Moon. So, there I was, singing my heart out, drinking a vodka and tonic, and having a grand old time. At some point, shortly after I lived vicariously through Adrienne by singing every word to ‘Rocky TopΒ Tennessee’, I was approached by a short, round woman in a plaid shirt who had been sitting at a table behind us with some friends.

“Hey, I have a question for you,” she said in a Southern drawl, (at least, the Indiana version of a Southern drawl, anyway), grabbing my arm.

“Yes?” I asked, leaning in closer to hear her over the music.

“Are you single?”

“Me?” I asked, shocked. She nodded.

“No,” I answered. “I’m married.”

“Oh. You’re married?” she said, sounding disappointed.

“Yeah.”

“Well,” she said, looking around. “Is your husband here?”

“Yes, he’s right behind us. The one in the purple shirt.”

She turned around and looked at him.

“The purple shirt? Not the one in the black shirt, right?” she asked, referring to Joel.

I was tempted to tell her that, in fact, Joel practically is my husband, as I see him with his shirt off more than Coleman, but instead I said, “Right. Purple.”

“Oh,” she said, turning her gaze back to me. “I could beat them up.”

I laughed. She turned around and punched Joel in the arm, then smiled at me, revealing a missing tooth.

“So, you’re married, huh?” she asked again.

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

“Well, my friend back there, the one in the Nike shirt? He sent me over here to see if you would dance with him.”

“Oh, well that’s so nice,” I said. “Tell him thanks anyway.”

“Ok,” she said, as she started to return to her table. “Hey!” she yelled, turning back to face me.

“Yes?” I asked.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six,” I said.

She wrinkled her nose. “Really? Twenty-six?”

“Yeah,” I smiled.

Then she leaned in, grabbing my shoulder, and whispered in my ear, “Oh, that’s ok, honey. You don’t look that old.”

She smiled reassuringly, then walked away.

I enjoyed the rest of the night, then woke on Sunday and promptly went to the store to buy some wrinkle cream.

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