THE CHANGING OF THE SEATS

There's something about a woman's butt that makes it want to change seats when it comes into a restaurant.

I doubt that one woman in a hundred will walk into a restaurant, pick a table, and sit there for an hour or two through all the courses. I don't know what the record for change is, but three times would be a safe bet.

She could be facing south when she wants to face north. It could be too sunny. It might be too dark. Too near the kitchen. It could be too drafty. Too near a crying baby. Or a wheezing, coughing old man. Somebody could be staring, sneezing, yawning, or laughing too loud. Maybe she's spotted an old boyfriend that she hopes to avoid.

It could be as simple as the hunter, gatherer thing. The guy (the hunter) is in a restaurant. He spots his prey (the table) and heads in for the kill. The woman, however, has far more on her plate than a place to sit and look at a menu.

She's gathering information, namely where's the perfect place to sit for maximum dining pleasure.

@#$%*@