I was in a library yesterday, working and eating a cream cheese, salt, and ham sandwich on french bread (trademark pending) when this maintance guy starting fixing a lightbulb by my work station.  He was being pretty relentless with the creepy eye contact, but moving to another station seemed like an overreaction.  How long could changing a lightbulb take?  Plus, I didn’t want to interrupt my fine dining experience.

Then I looked down and noticed a fair amount of french bread crumbs had fallen down my shirt.  My immediate thoughts went something like, “Gah!  How the heck am I going to get these crumbs out in a way that doesn’t encourage Winky McBlueJumpSuit over there.”  And then I realized that eating crumbs out of your cleavage is one of the least sexy things a woman could do and would probably turn him off.  There was a strange sense of empowerment that came with this newfound ability to counter victimizing eye contact.  He wound up packing up and leaving in the middle of this epiphany though so I didn’t actually get to test it.  I decided to just save the crumbs for the next time a similar situation arises.  They’ll come in handy, I’m sure.  But in the meantime, it’s pretty itchy.