I get hit on in the shoe section

Last night, on a thrift stop en route to a memorial service, I was browsing the shoe section when a fifty-year-old man in faded black jeans and an old Harley Davidson-Australia shirt said, "Looking for shoes?" to which I replied, "No", and tried to walk away.

He followed me. "I've seen you before." He came closer.

"No, you haven't." I tried again to get away.

"Every one in this town is like that; they are afraid to talk to people. What is wrong with this town? In Los Angeles, they don't act like that," he said. I felt compelled to prove him wrong.

He wanted to know what I did for a living. He wanted to know where I went to school. He wanted to talk about all the "events" that happen at said school. It went on and on. Eventually, I tried to politely excuse myself, and he followed me again to ask me about what I do for fun. I told him I don't [do anything for fun]. "I'm a grad student....I hang out at the library...all I do is work, etc." I wasn't even lying. He wanted to know when and where I like to go dancing. He didn't buy my "no fun" line. I told him that the only thing I do for fun is thrift, and I would like to go back to doing that.

The whole thing seemed to last forever, but it was probably less than ten minutes. Ten agonizing minutes.

You'd think I'd find love in a thrift store, but it has yet to happen. However, I was looking pretty darn good last night, so I can't really blame him for trying.