Made. My. Day.

Scene: Clickity clacking through the mall at lunch in my yellow stilettos, on a mission to find a white patent belt to match to my white patent shoes. Clickity clack, clickity clack…

Young, French Salesguy at beauty cream kiosk: Sweet-heart! I lahk your chooz.
Me: Hmmm? Oh, thanks. (smile; continue walking)
YFS: Oh and look, a mahtching bracelet. Verr cute. Would you lahk to try some hand crème?
Me: No, thanks. (continue walking)
YFS: Hey, come herrr for a moment. Zhust for a moment.
Me: Um, okay… (about to add “I’m on my lunch break and in a bit of a hurry,” I walk back over but my body language is two stores down the hall already)
YFS: (steps away from his kiosk, and asks very quietly) Are you ovherrr twenty-five?
Me: (blushing at the obvious-but-still-charming salesguy flattery) Yeeessss… (where on earth is he going with this? is it some kind of anti-aging cream? I’m considerably older than 25, so this line of reasoning is going to backfire on him…)
YFS: (still quietly) Will you mahrry me?
Me: (now blushing furiously) Oh! Oh, uh, thank you!

Now, if I had any actual social skills, this would have been an excellent time for me to say something like “I don’t know about that yet, but I’ll let you take me to dinner.” But I have no social skills. I blushed like mad, thanked him again, perhaps a third time, and kept walking down the hall. Smiling.