A most dire of predicaments:

...hoo boy.  I'm going to get in trouble for this post, I'm sure of it.

See, I'm going to faithfully report on something that goes on every day.  Male readers will know and empathize with my trials on the matter, and may actually be glad that someone finally has the guts to stand up and address the issue.  Female readers, on the other hand, might look upon my views on this matter and throw their hands up in disgust.  Either that, or they'll just shake their head and sigh "...boys" in resignation.

Fifty-fifty, really.

Here's the problem - hot waittresses.  Allow me to explain.

Hot waittresses are great.  There is absolutely nothing wrong -at least in theory- with attractive waittresses, and I think I can get near 100% agreement on that issue.  The problem, howver, is this - restaurants are a social place, where you congregate with friends.  And girlfriends. 

I think you can see where this is headed. 

Now, I'm pretty fond of the special lady - eyes only for her, blahblahblah.  But the average male's brain is wired towards women in much the same way a dog's eye is wired towards motion - if you throw a ball near a dog, he will chase it.  The poor little bastard can't help it.  And, just like that dog, I can't help it when a cute blonde walks by in a low-cut dress.  Evolution has made me this way, and there's not a damned thing I can do about. 

I do my best, I really do.  I try to focus on the girlfriend, or keep my eyes centred on my plate.  But then some waittress will walk by, catch my eye, and smile at me.  Naturally, I'll shoot a glance her way... and then pray the girlfriend doesn't notice. 

Well, last week we were at Earl's (for the record, neither the Special Lady or I chose Earl's... the group we were with are apparently oblivious to the fact that Victoria has so many independent and better restaurants than some silly little chain) and I was doing my best "eyes on the plate and girlfriend" routine.  I was stressed out, knowing that any second I was going to break and start ogling.  The only defence I could think of was to stand up, shout "I plead the fifth!" and run out of the building crying.

And then I looked up, and caught the Special Lady checking out a male waiter's butt as he walked by.  I suppose I should have felt jealous.  Or offended.  Or something equally possessive.  But, nope.

All I could think was:  jackpot. 

It wound up being a good night, because I got to chase my ball with absolutely no guilt whatsoever.