I have a lot of weakness and I admit most of it are stupid.

To give you an example, I have a weakness for men wearing baby blue shirt. They looked innocent and dangerously sexy. I would soon realize this during the next day given the same man in another shirt, with different color.  Some times I would not even recognize them. Well enough said that he would not impress me like the day before. I don’t know why this happens to me.

I didn’t realize this until someone asked me “what color of shirt is he wearing?” when I told her that I am in love with this or that person.

Baby blue.

“That figures!”

Am I that superficial?

How in the world a man would look ridiculously hot in a baby blue shirt and lose it in a different shirt? I cannot explain this mystery.

Another one is that I would grin like a stupid girl when I heard a French making an effort in English.

Ze argh so kiut!

I might marry one just for fun.

I cannot stand babies with curly hair. I think they are the most wonderful ones, no offense to others but they look like an angel. I’d squeeze one on an escalator if the mother is not looking. I’d pull their little button noses and tickle their feet.

Oh, they are so adorable!

If they have dimples, I’d wish I have a bag big enough to smuggle them home. I’ll fold them twice if I have to!

But my biggest, most dangerous weakness that I even consider saying this at an interview is the most superficial.

I go weak in the knees with Italians.

I was in Rome alone, which is a sin for the Romans. No lady should be alone in Rome, they said. One would approach then the other until one declares that he owns this one. They would start with compliments that would make any lady blush then make their way closer and closer.

And then they would make a bold suggestion.

Let’s go to the park, you know, the one in front of The Colosseum. I’ll take your pictures. I’ll carry your bag. I’ll bring your books. I’ll carry you, if you can’t walk an inch more.

Then they will add, maybe a park with less tourists, less people.

And suddenly you’re alone with him.

He would fiddle and make small talks. He would even sing for you in public, any famous love songs that you might knew. He would smile like a little boy smitten and cannot take his eyes off of you. He would even offer to give you a foot massage when you complained that you hurt your ankle.

He’s really good.

He’d chose a big pomegranate tree, sit on the waist-length fence and wait until you’re too close to even bother.

And then he would kiss you like he never kissed before. He would not ask for any permission nor any question. If you like it, you can carry on, if you don’t, you can slap him and walk away.

If you can walk away, please tell me the secret because I can’t.

And then you’ll tell him that no, it’s not supposed to be this way, then the worse part would be the begging.

I hate it because you will hate yourself by saying no and spend the next six years wondering what would happen if only you stayed in Rome.

So if the next time I meet an Italian wearing a baby blue shirt, I might need a slap on the face immediately.

I need to wake up.

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