I foolishly continue on my merry path to destruction, gleefully fiddling away while Rome burns. A continued pendulum ride to the dark side, a doomed Miley Cyrus hanging on a massive steel weight swinging hard away from everything I know into the void of… who knows? The Cavern of Iniquity? Night of the Living Dead Relationship? Creature from the Bad Boyfriend Lagoon? I seem determined to leap from the overly restrictive world I knew into a foreign land I know pathetically little about, and against which I have no defense, no armor, innocent pink skin entering the domain of wolves. I am the street-stupid kid thinking the guy in the creepy white windowless van has some pretty delicious looking candy, may I try some, sir? Really? You’re going to let me have a piece?
I date Mellodude. He’s a very nice person, and super laid back, ohhhh, wait, that’s because he has a daily marijuana habit. I was hoping I was actually witty enough to make him laugh that hard.
Nope, it’s not me.
Mellodude would be an awesome catch for someone who’s riding the 4:20 express, but as hard as I tried in college, I was never much of a ganja girl. I don’t even own a tie-dye anything, or a drug rug. Mary Jane, if you’re reading this, I’d be happy to introduce you. He’s a sweet, just slightly skunky guy. You’d LOVE him.
I am attempting to get accustomed to going out by myself. I do love the myriad of humanity I invariably meet. I go to a new place and square my shoulders, boldly forcing my feet forward in spite of the fact I know almost no one in my new community, head artificially held high as I forge ahead into the unknown. I look a bit… umm… unattached, and a small group invites me in and introduces me to a serially single gentleman, good looking and very nice. Great! He asks for my number and everything! We go on a few dates. Hmmm… All he talks about is sports. Sportballdude. Yes, I’m kinda bored at his one-track conversation, yes, I am seeing more red flags than China, but I persist in thinking mayyyyybe he’s The One. Yeah, for me, the massive sports fan. The one who thinks Tom Brady was the missing sibling from the 70’s sitcom, and a touchdown happens when you round home plate.
In between brain-numbing sports stories, he works overtime convincing me to go back to his place. I want a relationship, not a fling, so I tell him I will only go if he behaves. He is either deaf, or has a severe short-term memory loss from being hit in the head by the Sportball one too many times, because he is pushing me wayy too hard. I know, you savvier girls are reading this oh my god you dummy this guy only wants one thing and it ain’t getting a ring on your finger but I am bound and determined to make this work. He’s good enough, and I am doing a big settle. Until the last date where he goes wayy too far. I allow too much, and realize I’m giving too much of myself away. Come on, the guy is a certified douchebag. I’m out. I actually storm out of his apartment late at night with a few nasty comments. Maybe I’m being a douchebag, too.
Then I find out Sportsdude is Mellodude’s brother. Hmmm…. wonder if this is going to come back to haunt me…. But I’m in Big Suburb, what could possibly go wrong? These people don’t…know each other…do they??
Hey, wait a minute…
I suppose you’re waiting to hear about my long lost grade school friend who had a crush on me?
All right, I’ve kept you in suspense long enough. Yes, my friend from elementary school has contacted me, and done so in a rather memorable manner, extolling his long-hidden twelve-year old feelings in flowery terms that would make even the coldest of hearts swoon in abandon.
All I remember about elementary school is being a total nerd (my mom pinned my Ritalin to my shirt in a tiny yellow envelope. I know she was doing her best, but jeez Mom…). Some resourceful sixth grade prodigy even wrote a spectacularly insulting song about me with at least six totally obscene verses. WOW! Catholic school is AWESOME! If you’re not getting bullied by the other kids, you’re getting bullied by the nuns, and I was in trouble more often than not, being the hyper child who could only sit as still as a hummingbird on crack. I was one of those kids who can still remember what crayons and paste taste like (That delicious wintergreen paste was a solid 10/10. The crayons lacked flavor, body, and texture. Aaand smelling rubber cement makes you feel funny.).
Our school was a bizarre mix of future trust-fund adults, shallow as a cookie sheet from never having to do anything unpleasant; uppercrust kids whose parents already had their futures set up for them and were just tipping the first domino with the last landing in the Ivy League, but also kids who were so bad their parents had put them in Catholic school out of desperation to get them to PLEASE LAWD let them be rehabilitated at last. My overly innocent interaction with these last-chance, Hail-Mary Pass back-seat dwellers initiated my first experiences with weed, cigarettes, and the REALLY naughty words.
I never really had a group, I confused the Sorting Hat of elementary school, and it short-circuited. It had no clue what to do with me, so I just kind of floated about, a lost beach inflatable bobbing alone on the waves, ignored and forgotten, though I had a smattering of people I would talk to, and CrushDude was one of them.
I had no idea ANYONE was interested in even being friends with me, and here CrushDude is, contacting me thirtysome years later, and confessing at last his long-hidden desires. I had always liked him, and I was absolutely delighted that he had a crush on me! Really? REALLY?! This is awesome! We social media’d through the day and into the evening. He was saying the most romantic things, and I was getting excited, although there was just a tiiiinny detail in the fact that he lived pretty far away. Fine, whatever, I’ll sort that out later, but I was having a great time catching up with CrushDude.
After a couple months of this banter, he plans on coming to town. He’s from exotic Big City. Would I like to have dinner?
Hell YES, I’d like to have dinner!!
I am superexcited about this, and create the usual mountain of clothing on my bed, castoffs deemed not worthy enough for a hot date and piled up for putting away at a much later date. Like 2025.
He picks me up in his Bentley, looking super cool and kind of as I remember, only hotter. We are laughing and catching up on the last few decades, and pull into a top-notch restaurant. I feel stupidly proud as we pull in. I am flushed with excitement. We order wine, and giggle over the silliness of our youth. We exchange endless stories, and languish hours over dinner, neither of us wanting to call an end to the time together. This is an endless trip stuck on a Memory Lane roundabout, and neither one of us wants to exit the loop.
He finally does call for the bill, and we reluctantly depart the restaurant.
This is where I should have just gone home. I have this tendency to overextend things…
We stop out for a nightcap, I had two drinks over our lengthy dinner, what’s the harm?
We are at a bar I’m not very familiar with, off the beaten path and a bit on the sketchy side. I run to the ladies room, and when I return, the bartender slides a glass of ice cold destiny across the bar.
It is filled to the rim. Like a martini. Almost spilling over. This is a glass of wine.
Weird.
I turn to Dude and, laughing, ask if he’s trying to get me drunk. I take a sip, leaning over so I don’t spill.
It’s the last thing I recall.
Worship Leader Gone Wild 