Last night was mine, my time to shine, my time to stand atop a soap box and say a proper “Fuck you” to all those girls who said they were too pretty for me. Too pretty? I’m pretty sure they all have Chlamydic crabs. Anyways, after months of longingly staring at Laura, the classiest, most beautiful creature to ever walk this green Earth, I decided to pretend there was hair on my chest.
I stood behind my desk and got my self ready. It was go time. With my hair freshly touched up and what is left of my college beergut hidden behind my belt. I approached her desk with confidence. I opened my mouth to speak, hoping my testicles wouldn’t rescind and inconveniently make me sound thirteen all over again. “Hi.” I said, not a stammer. “Hi.” She said back, so softly. It was here that I paused for a bit too long. “Did you want something?” She asked, filling my silence. How sweet she was! How understanding and concerned! “I, uh, was wondering- I mean- I’m sure you get asked this often- but I was wondering if you would want to get a drink with me after work this evening.”
She smiled and I couldn’t tell who was blushing more. I probably won that little contest because I’m so much paler than she is. In any case she smiled, which I took as a good sign. Then she told me to meet her in the lobby at 5:45 and I may or may not have blown the night by suddenly becoming Erkel goofy and I tripping over her trash can on my way out. I didn’t say anything at the time, but I think I may have sprained my ankle.
I doodled and Google Earthed my elementary school until 5:30 came and it was time to punch out. I then went to the bathroom with the specific purpose of making sure I looked my best and consequently felt like a sixteen year old girl about to meet the quarter back. Self-deprecating examples aside, everything was going well.
I was waiting in the lobby at 5:43 exactly, acting casual, when the elevator opened and she stepped out. Time slowed and a sudden breeze tossed her hair about like one of those blow up balls at the beach. Or a pool party, whatever. It was like a movie until the biting winter chill of that suddenly not-so-playful wind ripped through my suddenly useless blazer and I grimaced.
Once again, so kind and caring, she asked me what was wrong. I didn’t have the wit to cover for my own shortcomings so I blurted out “I have poor circulation.” I guess my face was still all contorted because she started to laugh and stopped abruptly. Ever seen a champ like me? Didn’t think so, PBS wouldn’t even tell my story.
So we went to this little place I frequent called The Couch and had dinner and a couple of drinks. Suddenly, everything was on an upswing. I was funny, witty, charming. Even dapper. Thank you my dear Captain, thank you for guiding me from disaster on you boat of good times. When the time seemed right, I asked her if she wanted coffee and to blog about her ideals. Just kidding, I asked her if she wanted to watch Notebook. She said yes with both her eyes and her words and we were off.
I brewed the coffee, added a splash of ethnicity, and after half an hour we were both completely Irish. After that one scene in the Notebook, that one that everyone talks about, things got sensual, hot and heavy.
I picked her up and she wrapped her legs around my waist. She kissed my neck again and again. And again. I tried to navigate to my bedroom. Needless to say, I was distracted. So very distracted. When I finally made it to my room I scoped out my route, planned out my actions, and silently prayed that five was not my unlucky number tonight.
Little did I know that marathon I had wanted to run was the least of my concerns, taking its place behind apologizing, a trip to the hospital, more apologizing, separate taxis home, and a text to my best friend that read:
(419): I went to throw her on my bed and threw her straight in to my bike.
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