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Writing for this blog has been really good for me. The idea that I'm going to write honestly about whatever interaction I have with men has done a pretty good job of keeping me from doing some dumb things.

But since I haven't been writing as much, I seem to have gone right back to doing the same things that I totally know better than to do. Here's a summary.

Last weekend, I was at an event where I met a guy who spoke French as a first language. I got a little excited to be able to practice speaking French, something I haven't really done since college. I got carried away and gave him my phone number so we could hang out and chat some more.

I know better.

He has called me about four times a day for going on a week now.

On Thursday, I was heading into Rioja for the first time when some guys asked me something about my car. I have a pretty attention-getting car and I've become accustomed to, well, getting attention for it so I answered their questions, accepted their compliments and headed on inside to wait for my (girl) friend.

I ended up with several minutes on my hands before my friend arrived and while I was waiting, those two guys came inside and offered me a taste of their wine. By offer, I mean the manager poured it in front of me before I could tell what was happening. It's a small place and we were just about the only people there so I would have felt super rude saying "No thanks, I don't want to taste your wine because I don't want to give you the wrong idea.

But almost the worst part of this was these guys are much much older than I am. If they even thought they had a chance, I think they must have guessed my age at like, at least 10 years older than I really am. Since I'm not 14, that's not flattering!! I've been a little freaked out about it ever since. So if you see me wearing knee socks and pigtails, you know that I'm having some "I'm not 30 yet" fugue brought on by the trauma of being hit on by someone on the other side of retirement savings.

My friend arrived in just the nick of time, saving me from saying to these guys "I don't want to talk to you." Which I wouldn't have actually said anyway, I would have just smiled and been friendly to them and been uncomfortable and embarrassed.

The moral of the story is I shouldn't have given the Francophone my number and I should have been direct and firm with the wine-offering old dudes. And I think I did the wrong (my usual) thing because I wasn't thinking of writing a blog post about it. So Unbuttoned makes my life better, just like Socrates said it would. Sort of.