Come on.

Single or taken, out with the girls or out with the boys, I typically never get hit on. I have a flashing sign on my forehead that screams "Not interested! Not interested!"

My friends and I were on spring break in Acapulco our senior year of college. Out at a club our first night in Mexico, during a lull in conversation, we realized were were not interacting in the ridiculousness unfolding twenty feet away from us at all. Unknowingly, we had managed to completely separate ourselves from much of the partying scene by planting our butts in seats far away from fellow revelers and huddling in intimate conversation. We had no interest in meeting new people, much like our spring break counterparts. We then decided this collective mood would be known as "closed." We're closed for business, and we're not interested in talking to you, the complete stranger.

I am closed during much of my social life. I have never been one of those people who actually go out to meet new people. Granted, I've had a boyfriend for the majority of my college and post-college years. So, that could explain it.

So, I find it strange that I have been hit on more in the past week of my life than I have in the last year. And not by attractive or seemingly interesting guys, mind you. The situations have been painfully awkward, as I shut guys down before they typically have a chance to offer up their embarrassing pick up line. I'm not good at this.

Here are a few instances:

I was sitting at a bar, with Matt to my right.

The greaser to my left turned to me and said, "Can I tell you a secret?"

I respond hesitantly, "Sure."

"I want to call you tomorrow." Oh ok, sure...just let me give you my number. No introduction, nothing.

I said, "My boyfriend is right there."

He replied, "Oh, in that case...can you keep another secret?"

I, annoyed by then, asked, "What is it?"

He said, "Don't tell him I told you that."

Another instance, last Saturday, with my friend Kara:

Kara and I were sitting at a table for two, criticizing the get up that our waitress was donning. Polka dot shirt, plaid shorts, cowboy boots. Eclectic, sure. But we were questioning the relevance and worth of boots during the summer; the trend is showing up in fashion magazines and apparently on girls cooler than we, so the issue was important to discuss. A few minutes later, a man in a hideous orange shirt approaches our table. He said, "I saw you looking in our direction. Did you notice the large hemorrhoid on my friend's ass?"

I mean, he had me at hello. I think he was mostly after Kara (thank God), but there were a few minutes of awkward exchange between all three of us. I did feel bad for him because it was clear that things weren't going to end with him looking like anything but an ass. Kara's friend Jane, who had been in the restroom, sat back down at the table about two minutes into this horrible conversation, with a very amused look on her face. I understand that look. It's like, "Ha ha, I don't have to deal with this, but I'm going to pull up a seat and watch."

Matty typically has a similar response. Instead of swooping in like a superhero, I can often see his amused eyes watching me suffer through conversation with some random guy, who apparently doesn't see the neon sign flashing on my forehead. Except last week, instead of swooping in or ignoring the situation, Matt put a round of drinks for five on some poor guy's tab who wouldn't leave me alone (I believe his line was "I want you to tell me something about life that I don't yet know").

The neon sign on my foreheard briefly changed to "Last laugh! Last laugh!" But only for five minutes.