Men

Men.

They really are interesting creatures.

As I'm writing part of this post (in my nifty Wonder Woman journal), I'm sitting in a Barnes and Noble café surrounded by them. There's the cute one in the corner, for whom I had my friend switch seats with me so I could have a better view. They're sitting at tables with their wives or girlfriends reading, or solitary, hunched over a book with a cup of coffee or over a laptop with earplugs. One is even studying. In fact, there are far more men than women in this café in the middle of this weekday afternoon.


Eenie meenie miney mo- how much do you cost?


And when the cute one gets up to leave, I notice a tattoo peeking out from below his shirt sleeve, which prompts a debate between my friend and me about tattoos on men.  I like 'em (with some moderation), she doesn't.


Then another, slightly less cute one asks me to watch his stuff while he goes somewhere. I don't ask where. I also don't say what I would usually say to friends who ask this favor: "Sure, I'll let you know if someone steals anything." I figure I don't know him well enough to joke around like that.





On my visit to Jane Austen's cottage in Chawton, England, several years ago, I remember seeing a display that included a list of the men in her life, from the ones with whom she mildly flirted to the one from whom she accepted a marriage proposal before changing her mind shortly after. However, when I went through my pictures from that trip, I didn't find one from that display. Perhaps it didn't turn out, maybe they have a rule that states "no pictures", or maybe my memory is fooling me, as Oliver Sacks discusses here, which I found via this. Anyway, even Jane Austen wasn't immune to the cute one in the corner.


I'm pretty sure I don't have an actual point in this post.  They just are. Men.


And at least a few of them like books.