People have different ways of dealing with the impending death of a loved one. Some of those ways might not be considered healthy, but I say if we can garner a laugh out of it—and walk away without STDs or too many bruises (inner or outer)—then, BAM, why the F not?
Here’s how it went down … (Mind out of gutter, we’re not at that part. Yet!)
A few Fridays ago, I’m in my cozy abode deciding if I want to mope or make myself Little Miss Social. So, upon receiving an event invite, I—
Vacillate between jamming out or going out; decide to go out; tell Marilyn for accountability.
Call mom; cry.
Put on upbeat house music to get in the anti-introvert mood.
Drink one ounce each of Frangelico liquor and Van Gogh espresso vodka mixed over ice in a mason jar.
Paint toenails and fingernails; wait to dry.
Become impatient with drying time; have second beverage; feel tipsy.
Try to apply make-up while not messing up nail polish; fail; fuckit.
Apply make-up, make mistakes, apply more make-up to make up for mistakes; fail; fuckit.
Apply spray tanner to legs in shower; stain shower; send text photo of said shower to Marilyn.
Do hair; it’ll do; fuckit.
Get dressed in a dress; feel good; review in mirror; hmm, I’d fuckit.
Go out; drink more (fuckit); meet man (don’t fuckit).
Close the evening with—fuckit—nachos and poutine at 1:30am.
Cut to next scene: make-up, spray tan, and drool on bedding.
And since that was fun and all I got was a mild hangover—I’d downed a large glass of water with boost powder—and a phone call from a handsome redhead—whom we’ll call Red—I figure alcohol is my new best friend.
(Note: If any clients have found this post, um, just kidding! I am totally mentally and emotionally healthy, don’t rely on alcohol or any other mind-altering substances—uh, except meditation?—and can totally show you how to be well rounded and grounded just like me!) *sideways glance*
So, the next week after the above noted drunk night out, I’m eating chicken wings and drinking double Caesars—fine, one Caesar but a double—when I get a call from a guy—not Red—who I’ve kind of had the hots for since last December. This is kind of a big deal because I’ve only had the hots for two guys in the last four years. Four years, people!
I met him last fall, and though we flirted at the time, I’d quickly determined we had no long-term potential: he’s got kids (I’m allergic); he’s got a dog (I’m intolerant); he’s got … well, whatever, I’m sure there were other deal breakers, and I’m taking my own advice—no more fixer-uppers!
Anyway, I’m a double Caesar down and tipsy because I actually don’t drink often or much, so he and I decide to meet up after. Never mind where, I’ve already given you too many details. (Sheesh, yah greedy buggers!)
He asks me, What did you eat? I can’t place that smell?
Chicken wings and a Caesar, I reply but am wondering if he can smell the apple cider vinegar I’d used as deodorant and face toner because I’m out of silver water, my usual all natural anti-bacterial option.
I try to keep my arms at my side while we’re sucking face and thinking to myself, Thank G I’m on the rag because I’ve got a bearded clam that would scare the sand right out of him …
I’m so damn distracted by the evidence of my three-years-single (-but-super-happy-solo) laziness that I have a hard time concentrating. Nonetheless, he gets hard, and then I have a hard time not taking advantage of him. Such is biology.
We’ll leave out the graphic bits, but do know, I am still a born-again virgin: As soon as we were through making out, we were both anxious for him to leave. I already know he’s not interested in a relationship, and I’m not interested in a relationship with him.
The good/bad news: My crush is over.
The less good news: I woke up with a stiff neck and chewing gum on my… never mind.
What have I (re)learned?
We can retrain our brain! In the past, I would have seduced him. (Though, I’m not so confident that I’m quite so confident, anymore.) And then tried to change him and made us both unhappy. I had/have no desire to do that. (It’s also entirely possible he’s not seduceable―by me―but I don’t even care.)
With everything else going on in my life, I realize I’m not interested in a romantic relationship with anyone right now. Woah, an a-ha moment—I’m happy on my own! (Aside from sad situations, of course.)
When I go for happy hour and cheap wings but then order a sammich, fries and double Caesar on the side, um, there are no savings, silly.
Attend my overgrown lady garden. Check. (For me!)
Make my own damn hot wings at home. Check.
Yes, I know this post has TMI (too much info, as in personal info), but really—fuckit, so what!
Note to MFH: Don’t worry, Love, I’ll be ready for you one day and will totally keep our naughty endeavours hush-hush. *wink*
Thanks for reading, y’all! If we meet in public, please do let me know if I smell like a potato chip.