Hold on to your butts, people. This girl has a date.
As you may have read from my last post, Thanksgiving 2010 was bound to be fun when I innocently shaved my legs in the shower that morning. However, the next morning, in a haze, I realized I may have had more than the night I bargained for, because apparently T-Day 2010 meant that I would be beaten to death with tequila shots. It was, by far, the second worst hangover I can recall. I woke up, (at 3pm), to a message on my answering machine from a New Zealander boy who had the intention of taking me out later this week. Let's back track.
Now, I'm not usually one to give out my phone number to just any boy. Mostly because nobody ever hits on me when I'm out with my attractive girlfriends. This generally results in a sloppy, solo pity party where I become exponentially more drunk than the rest of my friends. Occasionally, (yes- occasionally, you assholes), I wake up with texts from people I do not know. This was one of those times.
The day after T-Day, at work, I felt like my organs were protesting against me, which caused my hormones to follow suit: "Kill yourself..." they whispered to me. Normally, this would have prompted an emergency room visit, but as it just so happens- the single worst hangover I have ever had, I made that 900 dollar emergency mistake only to be told that maybe next time don't drink so much. So I power through the third worst shift of my life and pass out at home. The next day, with my life no longer on the line, I decide to inquire about this mysterious boy who I vaguely remember asking me, "Can I buy you a drink" around 2am and thaaaat's about all I remember about Casanova. I decide to call the one girlfriend who usually remembers all the details, and is usually nice enough to spare the embarrassing ones.
"Tessy. Tequila and regret fornicated last night. And their baby was me."
"Well, he doesn't smoke pot." She says to me. What an odd first thing to remember, I think to myself. "Oh, and he rides a motorcycle." Ok! "Kind of... corn-fed looking." Ah, fuck. "Broad shouldered, roundish face... oh, and he has a speech impediment."
Well, it can't be all that bad. "Yeah, at first Lucy thought he was making fun of her." She tells me. Our friend Lucy is English. "And you kept insisting that he was from New Zealand." It was that bad.
"Are you sure? In the message I swear it sounds like an accent."
"It's a speech impediment. It got kind of weird how much you guys kept trying to convince him it wasn't, too."
Yeah, that sounds like me. Well, it wouldn't be the first time I gave someone my number and ignored them until they stopped calling. Men absolutely terrify me in the light of sobriety, so I'll just play this one like I do the rest.
But then I got a text message the next day. I don't know if this makes me a pretentious asshole (there are other reasons for that statement to be true) but bad grammar irritates the living Christ out of me. There is no reason to type 'u' instead of 'you' other than pure laziness. I don't care if it takes 10 more seconds to get your life-changing message to me, fucking type out 'you'. That combined with the numerous spelling errors and misplaced commas, I knew it was the end of our short-lived romance.
Later that week at girls night, I'm finally called out on Senor Grande. (It was my Latino version of Sex and the City reference.) "Well, I'm not sure what to do... Even his text messages say 'I have trouble speaking to humans'."
"Come on Maggie, you never go out with guys. You just meet them at bars and then chicken out when they want to see you again. You're single now, and besides- dates are fun!"
"Give me one good example of how a date is fun. You meet someone based solely on attraction and agree to go out with them sober. Then you have to painfully try and get to know someone while simultaneously trying not to pretend that the only reason you are on the date in the first place is because they've got blue eyes and dimples. Sitting through awkward, forced conversation in which you try and paint a picture of yourself, which obviously you aren't. Yeah, dates are awesome. Shoot me. If I went into a date not hiding who I was it would be Lemon Law'd. Over in 5 minutes. Besides, I'm a thousand times more charming when I'm drunk."
Cue: shocked stares from my female friends, followed by glimpses of pity that are quickly hidden to more encouraging looks. "Well what's the worst that could happen?"
What is the worst that could happen? And this is the story of how I got drunkenly convinced to call this poor boy and go on a ... gasp- date. Does this make me a terrible person for judging him so harshly, having spent maybe 5 minutes talking to him (well, remembering talking to him)? Yes it does. However, in an increasing attempt to get over the last asshole (coughDOUCHEBAGcough) who broke my heart, I suppose I have to... I don't even want to write it... meet new people.
On that note- I'm late for Happy Hour with a girlfriend, followed immediately by... ... ... the date. Well, at least it'll be a good story. Stay tuned...