This is the One Ring

Last week I went to a party with a friend from work. Guy was home with the kids, but I was out on a rooftop. There was Corona, there was sunshine, there was a fantastic view—but there were only two people I knew: the woman throwing the party, and the woman I came with. I braced myself for some small talk with strangers.

The guy to girl ratio was seriously askew. It was like four to one—and they were Finance Guys. Duh duh duh. I knew what to expect—as the Coronas vanished, the conversation would shift from chit-chat to gentle flirting to genuine hitting on to guessing what color my panties were and what my cup size might be. Sigh. Nice view, free beer, I told myself. It’ll be okay—you’ve dealt with it before, you can deal with again.

Except no. They chatted. And kept their eyes above neck level. With me, that is. With the other three women, it was panties all the way.

And okay, terrific, I was just as happy to be free of slaver. But it wasn’t exactly doing a lot of good for my ego since every other girl was getting hit on. Did I smell? Did I suddenly sprout extreme facial hair? I did a quick check to make sure that yes, I did still have breasts. Legs, hair, hands….

Oh. Duh.

The ring. It repels them like Sauron at the beginning of Fellowship of the Ring. I sweep my arm, and hundreds of men go flying.

Neat.