Who wears short shorts?

"Young lady, you've got the nicest legs in all of London."

At first it startled me, the man's voice coming out of the utility truck. He was eating a sandwich in the passenger seat (even though he was sitting on what I still think of as the driver's side) and, well, staring at my legs. Did I slap him? Did I make a dirty face and walk off in a huff about the indignity of being ogled liked a piece of meat.

Of course not. I smiled and said thank you. The English are just so damn polite, even when they're catcalling, it's hard to do anything but. It's not as if he said "Fancy a shag?", he just told me I had the nicest legs in all of London. And he seemed to be a pretty good authority on the situation. (I'm actually quite proud of my legs, and in this day and age women can admit when they've got it going on, right?)

I've been settling into The Life of a Londoner quite nicely, I think. I haven't been hit by a double-decker bus coming from the direction I'm not used to, people ask me for directions (and are surprised by my accent), I get a lot of reading done on the Tube, and I haven't embarrassed myself too badly by saying the wrong word or pointing out someone's fanny pack. (Note: Fanny = Vagina in British) However, I'm still getting hung up on pants. To me, pants are worn over your underwear. To the British, pants are worn under your trousers. Underwear. So if I tell someone I really like their pants, I'm bound to get an odd look. This is something I really must work on.

But most importantly, I've got friends! Obviously I've got Fen, but I'm filling up my phone contact list quite nicely with other students, just moved to London, and a few who are also On The Prowl. We have big plans to go out, meet men, have fun, and experience this awesome city. The Fun begins tomorrow. Grayer, now would be a good time to give me a Night Out Scavenger Hunt...

Dark Horse rides again

This weekend I had my first two meetings with the Dark Horse after I was sure it was all over. I wasn't entirely sure how things were going to go, and as a result, I was a bit skittish on Saturday, which he was observant enough to notice. I'm not entirely sure why. I essentially gave the man an ultimatum. He came through rather quickly, even though I told him exactly how I felt and what I wanted. That alone speaks volumes.

Eventually, I got over my skittishness and things returned to normal, only better. Better because we actually established that we are in fact dating and are not friends with benefits or in an imaginary relationship. (Of course, if it drags out long enough we could end up in an imaginary one, but I'll worry about that if we get there.) We also talked about squeezing in more time to see each other, including weekdays (but after bedtime), which made me quite happy.

He also said three things to me that made me like him even more:
1. On Saturday, he told me I looked pretty. This in of itself is not unusual, he tells me that all the time, but when he told me that on Saturday, I was dressed to play softball and wearing a baseball hat.
2. He said the massive surgical scar on my stomach was cute. Anyone who likes your flaws is a keeper.
3. Apparently I look sexy in a sports bra.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a winner. I mean, I put thought into what clothes I put on (at least when other humans are around) and understand the value of mascara, but when a guy compliments you on things like this, it's pretty awesome.

Even so, while out with the girls on Saturday night (plans for our Misery Summit were set in motion before DH called on Thursday), I gave my number out to a young fellow who asked for it. Not because I really care if he calls or not, but because a little competition never hurt anyone. According to The 4-Man Plan (see Books to Help You Survive your Singletonhood, left), you should juggle at least 4 men until you make one your 3.75 man (because no man is perfect). And because as we learned last weekend, anything can happen. And does.

"You're Pretty" "Shut up!"

I have an unusual problem. It's a problem most women can't fathom having, and may even wish that they had. I have a really, really hard time accepting compliments. When a man tells me I'm pretty or even dares to use the word "beautiful" (gag me!) I get all squirmy and uncomfortable and never know how to respond. It didn't take The Highlander very long to catch on to this, and as a result, it's been awhile since he's dropped any of these compliments on me.

The question is why? In order to get to the bottom of this, I consulted with Grayer to ask if she had the same problem. Grayer and I come from the same parents, and as everything is a result of how you were raised, I figured I'd start with her to see if she has the same problem. She said she does have a bit of the same problem, and we can only assume we have this problem for the same reason. We came up with a few theories.
1. We're not used to hearing it. I don't want to sound completely cocky, but I don't think this is the reason. I've been complimented enough by enough different people that this just isn't the case. Moving on...
2. Overconfidence. Grayer and I have more confidence than either of us have any right to have, and as we all know, this always goes directly back to a woman's father. And we have a ridiculously awesome dad who has always been supportive and thinks the world of us. Maybe we don't like compliments because we don't need them?
3. The I Hate Romance theory. Romance in general makes me uncomfortable. I don't like talking about where we are or where we're going, unless we're on a road trip. Could probably psycho-analyze that one too, come to think of it.

So what gives? Why can I not smile graciously and say thank you, while looking up from under adorably fluttering eyelashes? Help!