There is a mode that (some) women get into in preparation for a first a date, in which they flounce around their apartment in a bathrobe or towel vigorously lotioning, drying, curling, painting, spritzing and with or without the soundtrack of “Oh crap. Not that. Maybe this. Uh. Hmm. This better be worth it”, mumbling chatter. This was precisely the zone I found myself in before a date with an attorney a few years ago. (Not THE attorney… I meet a lot of them. This has been discussed.) This guy was amazing. He’s the kind of guy you lust after purely because you are so curious about the state of his apartment. I wanted to look in his closet. And in his bathroom. And his kitchen. I imagined a pristine arrangement. He was so well put together- so organized and intentional in his movements, let alone his speech. I had only been in court with him one or two times, but each time his slowly well chosen words did the trick. On me and everyone else. He was not influenced by the caffeinated rush that most attorneys run on, and I suspected there might even be a meditation corner tucked away somewhere in his bedroom. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Dammit. I was done for.

In an attempt to overlook my exceptional awkwardness, I will skip beyond the part of the story in which he just barely gets my number before I run to throw up in the bathroom. When he first approached me, I thought I had done something wrong. That fear combined with the terror of realizing that he was actually asking me for information I could not readily access (I also was briefly unsure of my name and where I was) was just too much. Good thing for that toothbrush I carry around. It would be misleading if I were to say “for moments like this”, because people don’t normally talk to me enough to take me to the brink of nausea. I’m a bag lady. People who work with me regularly neglect to bring their own crap with them because “that girl” is a resource who can more easily be tapped for various obscure first aid items, a full button repair kit, office supplies, tampons, condoms, batteries, contact solution, fingernail polish remover, blank CD’s, lots of pens, and another pile of crap that should probably go unlisted.

Anyway, Smell-Nice Stan (his name may or may not have been changed) as I liked to call him, called me a few days later. Again debilitated by my stomach, I had to keep the conversation brief. Somehow, I collected enough information in my distraction to realize ten minutes later (post vomit) that he had asked me out. For another five, I sat at my rattle-y kitchen table, head in hands, trying to remember what the fuck he said. I wasn’t sure if he was going to call me again, or if we had agreed to meet somewhere, or if he was planning on picking me up. First, I picked up my phone and imagined what it would feel like if I was, at that very moment, calling him back (”Shit! Shit! Oh my god! Shit!” click.). Returning to reality, I gathered my frayed wits about me and came to terms with the fact that he might just have to be stood up.

The next afternoon, he called again, and I realized that I was actually relieved. I had been a little sad that day that I couldn’t keep my shit together enough to understand English. After a few deep breaths, I answered, and it turned out that we were going to dinner and a show one of his friends from college was playing. I was thrilled. That would be easy, right? I wouldn’t have to talk to him for most of it.

We met at a sweet, underground bar that used to be slimy, I imagine, but a new owner had taken over and cleaned it up. There is definitely an allure about previously skuzzy that makes some things that much more hip. It’s like fancy light fixtures help make funky odors dissipate more quickly. Either way, I liked it.

As we ordered dinner, it looked like his friend was about to start. The timing could not be more perfect. We exchanged a few words, and the lights went down. I felt like things were going to be okay after all.

I covered my mouth as the friend emerged. Smell-Nice Stan had told me that he was a performing arts guy, but didn’t really elaborate. The friend (with four other similarly attired gangly men) was wearing a tail, socks (on both his hands and feet) and a cat ear headband. That was all. The only variety in costume was found in tail colors and face paint, anatomy discluded. They spent the next grueling 30 minutes frolicking (yes) around the small stage area, apparently imitating the mesmerizing nuances of the life of a cat. Or pack of cats, as this case seemed to indicate. I was too distracted to eat, and so supplemented with increased beverage consumption. The more drunk I got, the less I was able to restrain my chortling. The darkness outside the stage area could not conceal the source of the laughter, and the miserable tomcats kept looking our direction. Thirty minutes doesn’t feel like anything at all when, say, you’re trying to take a nap or something, but it is a hell of an eternity when you are forced to watch socked men making complete and dead-serious fools of themselves. It was painful, and Smell-Nice Stan was not amused at my tactless laughter. Apparently he had taken up similar hobbies in college, and this friend was an old partner (in crime against defenseless audiences). Well, as can probably be concluded, my drunk self is a very outgoing and overwhelming person. She loves everyone but also thinks everyone is hilarious. She was the loudest clapper. She was (not me!) the one who ran up and shook hands with the fuming performers repeating, “I loved it. I love it. I haven’t laughed that hard in ages. Oh thanks guys. That was awesome”. Smell-Nice Stan wanted to punch me. So tired.
This will continue tomorrow…