…I’d still like your thoughts on this one.

So last weekend, Julie and I went out to The Phoenix Landing. I’d never been there, and it turned out to be a pretty cool bar.

But there was one little incident there that I’d like to share with you.

Apparently, my tag was sticking out of my shirt, and another girl there seemed to have a problem with this. So instead of telling me that my tag was sticking out, she stuck the tag back in for me.

Now, it’s quite possible that this makes me a freak, but, perhaps because I’m insanely ticklish, I do not like being touched unexpectedly, especially by strangers. So, when I realized that some strange girl was sticking her fingers down the back of my shirt, I jumped and quickly moved away from her.

The girl appeared to be extremely offended that I wasn’t thrilled to have her take it upon herself to fix my tag. She started explaining to Julie what she’d been trying to do. Not quite sure why—I was well aware of what she was doing, I just apparently didn’t appreciate it as much as she thought I should.

And it didn’t end there. Later that night, when I was in the bathroom, as I exited the stall, I heard the girl talking to her friends. Apparently oblivious to the fact that I was standing behind her, she was saying, “So there was this girl, and her tag was sticking out, and I tucked it back in, and the girl, like, moved away from me.” She sounded disproportionately upset, and her friend was offering up the explanation that sometimes girls get territorial when they’re drunk (incidentally, those were two adjectives that didn’t describe me at all that night).

And closer to the end of the night, when I was in the bathroom again, I could see someone sticking her fingers into the door like she was trying to open it.

“Um, someone’s in here,” I said.

“Yeah,” came the girl’s voice. “I don’t have a problem with the girl in the purple shirt.” (Guess what color my shirt was.) “I’ll get you before you leave,” she said.

Well, she didn’t “get” me, whatever that meant, but there you have it. Who’s the crazy one here: me, or the girl who thought that I should be thrilled to have her make sure my shirt tag was where it was supposed to be?