Not to brag or anything, but I can count the number of times I have been hit on on one hand.  For the record, the last time was courtesy of a Canadian sheep farmer . . . in Miami . . . in 2008.

Maybe it’s because I learned the “don’t talk to strangers” lesson a little too seriously in kindergarten.  Either way, I generally don’t emit a please-come-talk-to-me vibe when I’m out and about.

Or so I thought.

Yesterday, as I walked to the bank, stroller handle in one hand, cell phone in the other, a man started to talk to me.

I know we haven’t gotten far in this little anecdote, but let’s review for a moment.  I am in motion.  I am pushing a stroller—with my left hand, wedding band and engagement rings shining up and out for all the world to see.  I am actively conversing over the phone.  Plus, I’m me, and typically do not talk to strangers.

Somehow, none of this was a deterrent to the man who tried three times to strike up not only a conversation, but a date for coffee or tea (my choice).  He finally surrendered upon learning that I was married.

Once I got over the shock of the thing, the whole situation made me wonder: did he think I was a single mom?  Did he think I was the nanny?  Or did he think for some reason I really needed that cup of coffee/tea he offered?

The world will never know.

At least now I can expect another three years of silence before being hit on again.  In my life, thankfully, this happens about as often and as reliably as jury duty.