Poor Phil

Wednesday, I was wearing the T-shirt my friend Jennifer gave me as I walking back from the corner store with a Coke for my brother who was fixing my flat tire. The T-shirt is blue with the words "Dork Magnet" written across the chest. The "n" in magnet is a red horseshoe magnet. This short little guy around my age with shockingly dark hairy legs sort of hesitantly told me that he liked my T-shirt once I had crossed the street to where he was. I smiled and thanked him, laughing a little because I love that the shirt was bought for me by someone who knew me well enough to know how appropriate it was rather than me having bought it for myself. He then paused, walking a little behind me, then said, "My name is Phil," with the emphasis of the word "my" as if to say, "Well, I'm the dork named Phil that is currently attracted to you. The humor in his tone that communicated that he knew he was a dork and that he knew this was a long shot but that he had to try it anyway made me laugh very hard in an - I hope - companionable way. If I hadn't been in the middle of car distress, I probably would have stopped to talk to him, just to honor his chutzpah. As it was, though, I was nearing my brother and as Phil saw that I was joining a scene with a man next to a motorcycle with full-sleeve tattoos, he probably assumed my t-shirt was actually mocking rather than inviting him, which makes me a little sad. He said with good-natured defeat in his voice, "Have a good night." I wished him the same and went back to freaking out about my car.

I do have to say that after watching someone change my flat tire twice now, I think I can do it myself next time.