In Which I Pray for the Floor to Open Up and Swallow Me

Last night I had a date. A first date. What seemed like approximately the 867th first date I've been on. It's becoming quite the habit.

It was going pretty well, actually. We were having a good time talking, an easy time keeping the conversation going...and then it happened. I, the woman who is not prone to spitting while talking, manages to lob the teeniest bit of saliva DIRECTLY ONTO HIS FOREHEAD.

I was horrified. What should I do? Do I acknowledge it, or pretend I didn't notice? For whatever reason my instincts were screaming "JUST KEEP TALKING!" so I did. He sort of casually wiped it off...and then kept touching the same spot for the next five minutes or so, repeatedly. OH, THE HUMILIATION. And of course all I could think of was this episode of Sex and the City, and how in a later scene poor Miranda is shown reading in bed, hours later, still wiping her face with a tissue over and over. (Warning, link is VERY NSFW)

Luckily he seemed not to really care. If we go out again I'll be trying my best to control my saliva.