Sunday, February 26, 2012

So Not a Date Movie

Amir and I have been friends for a while – going on 6 years, in fact. I met him playing in a coed soccer league when I first moved to DC. I always found him attractive. Stocky, black, great smile and terrific soccer player. Yum. He was dating someone at the time, though. And then when he tried to holler, I had already started dating Joseph. We kept in touch and still saw each other occasionally. He definitely pounced when he found out my relationship had ended. Thank you, facebook.

He used my birthday as an excuse to take me out to a fabulous Italian restaurant downtown. I looked hot. I felt sexy as hell and his approving look and subsequent compliments let me know my efforts were appreciated. Dinner was lovely – sparkling wine… sparkling conversation... sparkling company. He made me feel like a million bucks.

So what is my problem then? Why oh why did I get super squirrelly when he went for the kiss goodnight? It’s never happened to me before! This squirmy business. I mean, kissing is my jam – it’s what I’m good at. But when Amir leaned in, I froze. And I wasn't quick enough to give him my cheek so he got a half-mouth kiss. Groan. It was terrible. I was so awkward and embarrassed. We fumbled around and mumbled our goodbyes. Ughhhhhh.

I’m hoping to redeem myself when he calls and asks me to a movie the following week. What movie does he want to see? 50/50- the new Seth Rogen comedy. Within 20 minutes of the movie’s start, we find out the protagonist has spinal cancer. He’s 27. What. The. Fuck. I did NOT sign up for a cancer movie, people. I feel the tears coming. No. No. Please no. There are many scenes between this man and his mother and it hits a little too close to home. When I was home for my birthday I told my mom I never would’ve been able to go through my break up without her. My mom is a breast cancer survivor and the thought of losing her is unfathomable. Oh Jesus. And the waterworks begin.

Amir looks over at me a few times and I try to hide the fact I’m crying albeit not very successfully. He is surprised to say the least. The torturous movie is finally over but the tears won’t stop. Damn it. We are sitting alone in the semi-dark movie theater. Amir is staring at me with what looks like concern mixed with extreme fear. There is nothing a man hates more than a crying woman. NOTHING. The worst part is I can’t even explain why I’m so affected or emotional. The sobs rack my entire body and it’s the kind of crying that makes talking impossible. I’m horrified.

We haven’t gone out again. Weirdly enough it’s not because he didn't want to. He made it clear to me he was interested and willing to give me the time I needed. The truth is this: how do you recover from that? It’s too fast, too intense and too intimate. He saw something that very few people (especially men) ever get to see. As a warning to all of my fellow ladies, I’ve written a little poem.

Awkward half-mouth kisses
Are not the things he misses
Worse - tears on a date
And you’ve sealed your own fate

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Who Wants a Mustache Ride?

I have incredible friends. End of story. No, just kidding. That would be a weak story. When Joseph and I broke up, friends supported me in different ways. Some friends lent their ears, others lent their Saturday evenings for booty shaking, one lent his frequent flier miles to visit my sister and still other friends let me borrow their condo in Cancun. Yes, you heard me correctly. Nothing heals the heart like a vacation to Cancun.

The condo is GORGEOUS. It’s very modern and tastefully decorated – the view is overlooking a vast jungle and April and I have breakfast on the balcony every morning. My friend, Sylvia, had mentioned that there wouldn’t be too many people at the resort because it was off season. She also mentioned that there would be a Canadian guy who docks his boat at the resort’s marina. That’s a start.

April and I are walking with Ernesto, the property manager, and we hear loud music coming from one of the boats down at the marina. He smiles and says “that must be Matt.” The 80s hair metal music leads us to a completely bald, porn-mustachioed -albeit attractive - guy wearing cut off jeans and a wife beater. He has an infectious smile that somehow manages to escape under the heavy ‘stache. Within minutes he’s invited us to join him and his buddy on the boat that evening. He’s even hired a crew to man the boat since he doesn’t believe in drinking and “driving.” Promising.

I know it’s going to be quite a night when April and I finish off a bottle of wine AND champagne before we even join them. I have it on good authority that Chris, mustache-man’s friend, is a talented musician so I snag my guitar on the way out the door. A crew of about four Mexican guys greet us and usher us onto the boat. Matt is whipping up margaritas and Chris lights up when he sees the guitar.

We are sitting on the top deck of the boat playing guitar, singing and drinking. April and Matt go down to get more to drink and leave me with Chris. I finish playing and singing him a song and hand him the guitar to serenade me. I didn’t originally find him attractive but after 2 glasses of champagne, 3 glasses of wine and 2 margaritas (combined with his musical talent and singing ability – I’m a sucker for musicians) I am feeling him BIG time.

I’m not proud of what happens next. Well, not that I remember much of it. We pull right up to the club, get off the boat and enter through a secret back door. VIP, y’all! There is dance music playing and I run off with April to dance on stage. I look away for literally a split second and when I turn around, April is being hoisted up by her feet into a strange dizzying contraption designed to make girls feel even more drunk than they already are. She gets spun around and somehow manages to not barf when they finally let her down. Many margaritas later and I move from "browned out" to officially blacked out. I don’t remember kissing a random Brazilian man or being told it was time to go.

Chris is nowhere to be found as we make our way back to the boat - I vaguely remember feeling bad about ignoring him once we got there. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol (most likely, let’s be honest) or the swaying of the boat but I realize immediately that I’m going to be sick. Thank goodness I have the sense to hang my head over the side of the boat. April is rubbing my back trying to soothe me while she talks to Matt. I feel awful because I’m probably cockblocking right now and ruining their romantic moment. Nothing like the sounds of horking to put you in the mood.

The next morning I’m greeted by dehydration and a pounding headache. Oh, and guilt. Yep, and embarrassment. I’m 29 freakin’ years old and not only did I act like a complete fool but I ended the night with my head hanging off a boat throwing up. April assures me that everyone is entitled to this time, especially after a traumatic break up. Amen, sister. I do believe that’s the formula, folks. Margaritas + Cancun + mustachioed boat captain + blacked out make out sessions = pathway to healing.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

I Haven't Been There for the Longest Time

Airplanes. They are the new bars. Think about it – it’s the perfect scenario… you’re trapped for hours in a confined space with strangers. Sound like a claustrophobic nightmare? Not for me! I’m at the airport waiting for my flight to Colorado for my best friend’s 30th birthday extravaganza. I’m pleasantly surprised by how many good looking, strapping men are in the waiting area for the Denver flight. Feeling pleased that I had actually put on a little makeup and done my hair, I mosey over to a particularly handsome fella and plop myself down next to him.

He’s eating a sub and I ask him mid-bite if this is the flight to Denver. He nods yes and that’s all it takes, folks. We are chatting the rest of the time and the poor guy never even gets to finish his sub. He’s definitely a military guy – shaved head, muscles and polite as can be. We board the plane and funny how the universe helps you out once in a while. My seat is literally one row in front of his. No one sits next to him and he motions for me to join him. I ask the flight attendant if it’s okay to switch seats and she gives me a knowing smirk.
Kevin and I talk the entire time on the 3.5 hour flight to Denver. Life, love and everything in between. He’s got brains AND brawn AND looks like a cross between Viggo Mortensen and Robert Sean Leonard. It’s okay, go ahead - look those two people up on the interwebs to see what I’m talking about. Hot.
I meet up with Lola, her sister and 3 friends at the hotel and tell them about the handsome man I met. We are leaving Denver in the morning, though, and he lives in Colorado Springs anyway. Bummer. Oh well, c’est la vie! We head to Glenwood Springs and spend the next few days exploring the wild west – hiking, eating, drinking and a little dancing. Colorado is one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited. Epic scenery.

On our last night we head back to Denver and have plans to go to a karaoke bar after a sushi feast. Kevin and I have been texting back and forth and he and his friend Brody are driving up from Colorado Springs to hang out with us. I’m both excited and nervous to see him again.
I may have failed to mention that Lola and all of her friends are professional singers. Like for real. I am a mediocre singer at best but I can hold my own at karaoke. Kevin and Brody are not enthused about singing and I give both of them a hard time because hey, it’s a karaoke bar. Man up!


Tee hee. He makes me get up and sing with him which I acknowledge is only fair. It is nauseatingly cute especially when he puts his arm around me while we are singing lyrics like “I took my chances, I forgot how nice romance is… I haven’t been there for the longest time.” Swoon.
Lola brings the house down with her rendition of Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” and we are among the last patrons to leave the bar at 2 am. What happens next is surreal and it feels like we’re in high school again. We don’t have anywhere to go but we don’t want to go home. So we stand outside and just laugh for hours and hours. Pretty sure we covered all of the bases and have made fun of every race, religion, political affiliation and stereotypes imaginable. Including leprechauns. We are out there until 4:30 am. Not kidding. No one wants this night to end so we end up going to Denny’s.

It’s now almost 6 am and most of us have early morning flights to catch and both Kevin and Brody have shifts at 8 am for their military jobs. Kevin and I say goodbye with a long hug and I can’t help but feel disappointed that I didn't get my make out. I have no clue if I will ever see this man again but he has reminded me of a valuable lesson that my grandmother taught me a long time ago: always look cute when going to the airport. You never know who’s going to be on your flight!

Monday, February 6, 2012

You and Me Baby Ain't Nothing But Mammals

I met an African man named Jean-Yves – where else?- dancing. He was dressed in a fashionable suit and vest complete with a stylish hat that would look ridiculous on a lesser man. I was amused when he asked for my number but couldn’t even remember my name. Normally I won’t give a guy my number if he can’t remember my name but Jean-Yves warranted a second chance. He handed me his phone to input my number and I entered it as “Mystery Salsa." Again, I was amused when he still didn’t ask my name but took to calling me “M.”

Jean-Yves texted (ugh) and invited me to an African birthday party. Loving it. I imagined it would be at one of the African-friendly nightclubs with perhaps a band playing international grooves. He gave me the address and we agreed to meet there at a reasonable hour on Saturday night.

I’m walking down the street while looking for the address. Huh. That’s weird. The address he gave me is to a church. Thinking he gave me the wrong address, I call him and get his voicemail. Hmph. I saunter up and ask a older gentleman if there is a bar/restaurant anywhere nearby. He smiles and asks if I’m looking for the African party. Gulp. He sends me around the side of the church and a life-size poster of the birthday boy alerts me that I’ve been invited to an African man’s 60th birthday party. I have two choices: bolt or walk in. What the hell? I walk in.

I’m stunned. It’s literally 150 Africans dressed in full African garb – as in the headdress and everything – milling about a church hall. There are old people, young people, children and babies - I am the only white person. Jean-Yves spots me and comes to retrieve me. I smile thinly and tell him this isn’t what I thought he meant by an African party. He looks confused and says “I said it was an African birthday party. Are you hungry?”

I ate delicious food. I talked to everyone. I danced with every single child in the room. Jean-Yves and I twirled around to a few salsa songs. A woman invited me to her wedding reception the following weekend. She knew a party girl when she saw one. To put it simply, I had a blast. I’m glad I didn’t bolt.

Jean-Yves walks me to my car like a nice boy and holds my hand as we cross the street. He is saying something about never being able to find a sweet girl with long hair (Apparently those are his two requirements for dating). We arrive at my car and I have to hand it to him. He goes right in for the kiss.



So disappointing! It’s not an awful kiss. Mechanically it is sound. How is it possible I don’t feel any chemistry with this gorgeous black man who dances like Patrick Swayze and dresses like Usher? Screw you, pheromones!