It was a night of old men talking. And talking. And for the love of Jesus, fucking talking.
And the touching! If that fucker touched my arm one more time I was going to punch him in the eye. I'd have felt really bad afterward because he was in his 70s, but being in your 70s doesn't make you forget about other people's personal space. Still, you don't want to hit an old man. If he was 30 he'd have been on the floor, because I was getting pretty pissed.
I deliberately moved my arm and my wrist out from under his hand a number of times, stood up and moved the stool over ... nope. Just reached a little farther. It wasn't like he was groping boobs or anything, and he spread it around to all three of us, but it felt unnecessary and opportunistic. If that man had touched my knee I don't think I could have stopped myself from shoving him. I had a spot picked out and everything. I pictured him flying backward, hitting the floor.
Two things strike me.
One. I wish I
had punched him or even said "Hey, quit touching my arm."
Two. Why the fuck didn't I? Sure, age is one thing, but if you think someone is taking advantage in however small a measure, why the fuck wouldn't you call him on it? Public place? Don't want to embarrass an old man who might not be entirely with it? That shouldn't be my concern.
I don't know, but it's something to think about. I tend toward the "deflect and avoid" method, but it might be a good idea to get a bit more punchy because it's still bothering me today.
I really couldn't ask for a better, more loving mom, and believe me, do I appreciate her. 
