{Photo taken at the Pantheon in Rome, earlier this month.}

After a visit to the Pantheon:

Me:  ”So I got hit on by an Italian pervert in the Pantheon.”

Mr. Husband:  “What are you talking about?”

Me:  “Well I was standing there in front of Raphael’s tomb, listening to the recorded tour guide, and this man starts talking to me.”

Mr. Husband:  “Yes….”

Me:  “And every time he spoke he leaned in closer and closer, while I leaned back farther and farther.”

Mr. Husband:  “Yes…”

Me:  “I was finally able to let him know my husband was with me, just on the other side of the Pantheon, and after offering up his best look of shock and horror, he put up his two hands as if he were holding an invisible shotgun and then did his best charades-esque imitation of the shotgun being fired.”

Mr. Husband:  Stares at me blankly

Me:  “You know, he was pretending to be you, reacting to him practically trying to french kiss me in the Pantheon.”

Mr. Husband:  “Yes…”

Me:  “Then I was finally able to wrangle away from him, but not before he leaned in one more time to tell me (I now move into my best impression of a strong Italian accent) ‘I will dream about you tonight!’ After that I watched him, and all he did was walk around looking for women by themselves so he could accost them in the same way he did me.”

Mr. Husband, who is Italian:  “Honey, he’s not an Italian pervert, he’s just Italian!”

[Epilogue: I shared this story with two girlfriends recently, and their response was exactly the same.]