The Actual Very Worst Date of Mine, Seriously, I Swear

Before we get started, I want to remind you of a few things. If you've been reading along, you've seen a sample or two of the horrible dates I've been on. If you're new, you should know that when the date is catching on fire, I'm often the type of person to hang in, just to see what happens next. I'm fascinated by social train wrecks, and sometimes I really can't look away. The story I'm about to tell you is actually, literally the worst date I've ever had. This is coming from a girl who was screamed at in a Chili's by a guy who couldn't handle his coupon being expired. A girl who escaped a horribly scarring, emotionally tumultuous, highly abusive relationship, who is fairly skilled at picking up on red flags (even if I don't always see them until I meet someone face to face). A girl who has been stalked, harassed, embarrassed, and honestly worn out. Bottom line: I have seen the murky depths, and crusty, awful, jagged bottom of the dating cesspool, and I have lived to tell about it.
It has taken me nearly a year to write this, no matter how hard I have tried. I've even gone out of my way to only tell a few people about it, because even as it happened, I knew I wanted this to be my masterpiece. There is no other first date experience that has even come close. After a thousand attempts at putting it into words, I have accepted that this will not be the magnum opus I crave to create, and I apologize if it seems a bit scattered. Honestly, to explain everything, to capture it all and spit it out in a manner befitting of that strange evening would take up chapters. And so, all I can do is hope against hope you find this tale as genuinely batshit as I do.
Please, please understand and remember that all of the stories I tell are true. The only details I change in any given post are the names of people, and sometimes establishments. I say this to drive home the fact that this person actually exists out in the world, and we even had a mutual friend. He is out there. Right now. He is an actual, literal human being who actually, literally, make no mistake, says and does the things I will be describing. I only find what happened to me to be funny because it was, overall, ludicrously bad. This doesn't mean I condone any of it, and it definitely wasn't funny at the time, some of it I'll never actually find funny. The people I met that night are still my friends. I have witnesses, damnit. Witnesses.
Oh, and even though I usually don't say it, feel free to send me messages and emails! I love when you interact with me! (Contact form is under my picture over there -->)

Enjoy.


August of 2017 was set up to be rough. At the very end of July, I'd been recently dumped, and I was grieving heavily the loss of a woman I'd loved as a second mother. In fact, I'd just been to her funeral, and the day after her service was the one year anniversary of one of my best friend's deaths. By the first of the month, I was not doing so great, and I'm sure I was in no real state of mind to be meeting strangers, but I decided it would be better than moping around and isolating myself entirely. While I do believe we are more likely to attract people who are miserable for us while we are miserable ourselves, I also tend to ignore my own advice roughly 78% of the time, so I reactivated my Tinder account. On August 2nd, I matched with Aaron because he had pretty pictures. That's it. That's the only reason I was interested. Sometimes, it's just nice to go out and be pretty with someone for a drink or two, then carry on with my life. That was my only plan.
Aaron and I had one mutual friend, and when I saw who the friend was, I figured Aaron must be a pretty normal guy. Maybe a club going, party type, but overall probably a good person. In fact, I have so much respect for our mutual friend that I didn't even reach out to him to see if going out with Aaron was a good idea. We exchanged numbers, and texted a little bit throughout the day. He wasn't being particularly forward, nowhere near disrespectful, but he did seem a little...high, maybe? It was a lot like talking to someone who was stoned out of their mind. The conversation looped occasionally, and he seemed to forget questions he asked me even though all he had to do was scroll up on his own screen. Odd and mildly irritating, sure, but not threatening or otherwise alarming. He asked if I would like to go out the next night.
The evening of August 3, 2017, five days after saying my final goodbyes to my second mom, four days after the one year anniversary of one of my best friend's deaths, and one week after being dumped for being chronically ill (he didn't think he could handle it long term), I was straightening my hair in the bathroom, blaring Queen, and forcing myself to be cheery. Every now and then, my phone would buzz with the sounds of Aaron asking repeat questions. Originally, we were going to go to dinner together, but his shoot was running long (he was a model), and dinner plans turned into karaoke plans. I can't say I was very excited by the time I left my house, but I had grown curious. The texts had gotten even more strange. He told me about his siblings in a way that made it pretty clear they were deceased, and when I said I was sorry to hear about his siblings, he rapid fire texted in reply.

"Who told you about my family?? How the fuck do you know about it?

Seriously, are you trying to Google my family?

Don't look me up. Don't look them up."

That was the beginning of the end, really. I told him I hadn't heard anything, that I just assumed by what he said, that he had lost some family members. I told him I was sorry, I didn't mean to pry, and that I had lost my brother, too. I didn't even know his last name to look up his family if I wanted.

"I'll tell you about it if I want to, not if you're up my ass about it."

Honestly, when I look back, I know that was the moment I should have cancelled and deleted his number. We didn't know each other, and he was being both rude and a bit sketchy. Obviously, I didn't do that. I instead assumed whatever the wound was had to be incredibly deep, if not fresh, and everyone has sore spots. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Hey Anger, meet my friend, Compassion, right?
When it came time to leave, I wasn't very enthusiastic, but I was trying to shake off the uncomfortable vibe I'd gotten. Aaron had sent me an address, which I entered into my GPS, and I was on my way. Only about ten minutes into my drive, despite it being 8:30pm on a Thursday, I hit one of the worst traffic jams I've been stuck in to this day. I couldn't even get to the next exit to take back roads, and I spent an hour going a total of three miles. I kept updating Aaron, who was now waiting on me at a bar that was already half an hour away when there was no traffic, but there was no telling how long it would take me to get there. Eventually I managed to break free, but my date had decided to bar hop. He sent me a new address, which was about ten miles further. It led me to an apartment complex, where I immediately turned my car around, ready to head home if this had been intentional. When I called him, he was somewhere loud, and kept saying he would come meet me in the parking lot, but I had to tell him several times I was at a complex, not a bar. He then offered to meet me at a nearby gas station so I could follow him to whatever bar he was talking about. Fine. I then told him what I was driving so he could find me. After only a minute or two, his SUV came squealing into the parking space next to mine. He rolled down his window, and told me to hop in.
"No thanks, I like to drive myself."
He told me I was being difficult, but to follow him. It was obvious he was either already intoxicated, a terrible driver, or both. He hit two curbs before double parking at some dive down the street.
When he emerged from his vehicle, he wasn't quite what I expected. He actually looked a good bit like Ronnie Ortiz-Margo, from Jersey Shore. On the shorter side, stocky, very Jersey Shore style clothing. He was attractive, but he wasn't built like any male model I'd ever met or seen. It struck me as odd, but then I remembered he also said he did some personal training. Maybe he was doing a shoot for that gym? I shrugged it off, and really didn't think about it again. He gave me a small, loose hug, nothing uncomfortable or inappropriate, and we walked inside. They didn't have karaoke.

"I thought you said this place had karaoke."
He seemed irritated. "They do! I've been here before!"
"...weren't you in here like five minutes ago?"
"Nah, I was at a different place. But I could swear they had karaoke here. You want to play pool?"
"Sure."

We walked up to the bar to order drinks, and were told they had servers in the pool room. I reacted like a regular person, smiled and apologized for not knowing the protocol, and started walking toward the pool tables. Aaron reacted as if the bartender had insulted him, and kept muttering about how the service is always terrible. Our server, Amy, arrived promptly. She was sweet and cheery, a bit on the thicker side, and she was a beautiful woman. We briefly chatted while Aaron was setting up our game. When he finished, he came over, ordered a double shot of tequila, then pointed at me and guessed "vodka?.....cranberry?"
I looked to Amy. "Whiskey and ginger, please."
It really only took about five minutes to get our drinks, but my date was acting as if it had been hours. He made several comments about how slow everyone was, and after Amy delivered our order, he was quite rude to her.
"It's about time."
I looked at her apologetically. He laughed as she walked away, so I asked him was was funny.
"What a fuckin' cow, right? Fat bitch." A bright red flag.
"I think she's pretty."
"Nah."
He then turned that into a series of compliments toward me, comparing us both loudly until I asked him to stop, which he did immediately. It was then that we started trying to get to know each other, but mostly he would ramble on about things he hated. Like his ex, who was, by his account, a genuinely bad person. She was the mother of one or both of his children (it was unclear to me, and I was too afraid to ask for clarification). Also, he had told me the day before he didn't have kids, but now he was a single father of two. This ex-hating red flag was even more red and even more flaggy than the last. On and on, through what seemed to be his entire life story, which he felt very comfortable sharing, the common thread was just how much anger he had toward nearly every woman in his life. This concerned me greatly, and my concern grew when we finally reached the topic of his mother. She, as he put it, was a slut for whom he has no respect. This was, of course, the reddest, flaggiest, flashing neon sign-flag that there is. No coming back. A quick side note for any straight woman reading this: MEN WILL TREAT YOU THE WAY THEY TREAT THEIR MOTHERS. IF HE SPEAKS LOWLY OF HER, HE WILL SPEAK LOWLY OF YOU. REMEMBER THIS FOREVER.
I had known for about fifteen minutes (since that bizzarre drive over from the gas station) that I wouldn't be going out with him again, but by this point I was both fascinated by his erratic behavior, and morbidly curious about what he'd say next. I noticed he kept looking over my shoulder, and into the main bar area, as if he recognized someone, becoming visibly agitated.
"Someone you know in there?"
"No, I just hate when people fucking look at me. People stare at me everywhere I go."
"Why do they do that? You famous?" I chuckled.
"No." He barked it at me, so I dropped it.
He told me the tragic story of losing a brother and sister, but the way he told it made it sound like he blamed his mom for what happened. I won't go into it, because that's not actually my story to tell, just know that the blame wasn't rational. This was a disturbed person, and he reminded me a whole lot of other angry, drunk men. He ordered another shot of tequila. I continued nursing my drink. This time, when Amy delivered his glass, he barked at her for taking too long, and asked how how she even has a job.
"AARON! Don't be like that. Amy, I apologize."
She walked off quickly, before having to be involved in the conversation.
"Dude! That was mean. Don't be mean to her."
"Was that rude?"
"YES."
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I'll go apologize to--"
"No, just...just don't say anything else to her. I'm revoking your ordering privileges." I made sure to smile slightly, scrunching my face as I scolded.
Normally, I wouldn't try to "cute" my way through this type of situation, but he struck me as highly volatile, and peace keeping is an instinct I have from my own past with highly volatile drinkers. He listened to my direction because he was interested, and I figured I could keep everyone calm if I played along for long enough to finish the pool game, down my drink, say my goodbyes, and politely leave. Not for his sake, because I have no problem calling people out, but for mine. I had begun to question how safe I actually was. It had only been about half an hour, and he'd already managed to check off my list of warning signs like it was his personal mission. He agreed not say anything to Amy anymore, telling me I could not only order everything myself, but I could also fill out the tip portion of the receipt, and he would pay it. That seemed to be a decent deal. The next time she came to our table, I informed her that he wasn't allowed to speak to her anymore. She pointed at his glass and raised a brow, while he gave a thumbs up and smiled. It was good enough for me. I had still hardly made a dent in my whiskey, though, and my incredibly charming date was already several shots in, not counting what he must have had before meeting up with me.
Aaron wandered off to the bathroom, and I flagged Amy down to explain what was going on. I told her that I didn't actually know this guy, it was a first date, a really awful one, and I was honestly as put off as she was. She was relieved, and said she would make sure the bartender kept an eye out for me, if he started acting up.
Upon his return, we continued talking. Sort of. It was basically him continuing to tell me horrifyingly revealing things about himself and his mental state. We briefly chatted about what I did for a living. At the time, I was writing research articles for small business blogs. It was hardly exciting work, but it paid enough in the moment. Aaron seemed impressed. Frowning, he explained to me that most women he meets aren't that smart. Then he called me a nerd every other sentence for about five minutes. It was then that I remembered our mutual friend, Joseph, a nerd like me, and decided to ask how they knew each other.
"Oh. Him. Uh, we used to work together."
"Ah, cool. Doing what?"
He chuckled a little. "It was a while ago. He's changed since then. We worked in the entertainment industry." Joseph was a DJ and a promoter, so I naturally assumed that was the entertainment Aaron was referring to.
"Did you promote with him?"
"Not exactly. It was more....adult than that."
I think I choked on an ice cube. "Excuse me?"
He was laughing again, but harder. "Okay, okay. I used to be a dancer."
"What?! Really?! What about Joseph?"
"You can ask him if you want. He'll tell you."
I got my phone, and began texting with Joseph. I said I was out with one of his friends, and that I heard they used to work together. When I said who I was with, my friend said he knew him, and that he hopes I have fun, but then he wouldn't answer anything else. It was almost as if he didn't want to answer my questions about whether or not Aaron was as insane as he seemed. Hm. Suspicious.

Right about that time, a few guys walked in, and two made a beeline for our table. Apparently, they had been at whatever bar Aaron had been in before meeting up with me. They were friendly, and I really did like them. They were fun, kind, and they happened to be gay, so I wasn't concerned about being hit on. They were also both southern and mega sassy, which happens to be one of my favorite combinations in anybody. One of their friends challenged Aaron to a game of pool, and after checking with me (the only polite thing he did besides opening the door for me), they walked off to a pool table a little further away. It actually worked out pretty well, considering I had wanted to be away from him. This is also where our stories sort of split for a while. I made a joke that I would be his cheerleader, but really didn't pay much attention to their game. He came over now and again to flirt with me for a minute, or update me on who was winning, but mostly he stayed with his buddy, continuing to down tequila. Todd and Mark, my new pals, began their interrogation. Well, mostly Todd.
"So. Friend of Aaron?"
"Sort of. I just met him."
"Do you like him?"
"Too early to say." I was lying through my teeth.
"You're lying through your teeth, girl. It's okay, I don't know him that well, I won't say anything."
"Oh...well, thanks, I guess."
"I have to say, I really didn't think you were his type." He looked to Mark, and they shared a smile.
Mark chimed in, "I mean, don't get us wrong, honey, you're cute and all, but...well....Oh, you tell her."
"Tell me what?" I asked. They just kept smiling. "Guys. Just tell me what's going on."
It was then that Todd told me to finish up my drink. He was gonna buy my next one, because I was going to need it. For reasons I can't quite explain, I followed his instructions. My gut was telling me to stick with these dudes, and my gut was also telling me I was about to get some serious gossip.

"Okay," Todd looked around, then leaned in over the table, lowering his voice "you didn't hear it from me, but I heard Aaron's had a relationship for quite a while now. Someone much older. Someone with a lot more money." He looked me up and down, "No offense."
I was so surprised. "None taken. So you're telling me he has a sugar momma?"
They both cackled. "Oh, honey. Goodness, honey, no. Not a momma."
"Wait, what are you saying?"
There was a long pause.
"We're saying we're surprised to see him out with a woman. You are a woman, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am" I was now understanding what they were on about. "Wow...so I guess he's bi?" I asked.
"I never thought so until tonight, but yeah, maybe."

Now, a person's sexuality is none of my business, and I don't actually mind dating bisexual men, but this sugar daddy business was a bit much. Apparently, Aaron had been out and about with the older gentleman just days before, referring to him as his boyfriend. Todd had seen them together earlier in the week, as had everyone in their little group. They all frequent the same bars and clubs.

"What are we talking about over here?" Aaron appeared suddenly, placing his hat on my head.
"Music." Todd said quickly, "Did you know your girl is quite the oldies buff?"
"Nice. No, I didn't."
He asked if I was okay to hang out with my new friends a while, because things were getting heated over in the pool department. Some double or nothing nonsense. Of course, I was. Todd, Mark, and I continued chatting, cracking each other up, and getting on well. Every now and again, we'd hear Aaron and his opponent trash talking each other, and sometimes it would shock us enough to stop to shake our heads before returning to our own civilized conversation. At one point, we even thought we heard a rape joke being bandied about, which was way uncool, to say the very least. I had already been there about an hour (which was longer than I'd planned on staying, but I liked these guys), and I had just mentioned to Mark I was thinking of heading home when Aaron came storming back over to the table, slamming his shot glass down, and putting on his jacket.
"Well, I'm getting kicked out."
"Really? Why?"
"Stupid bitch over there complained about me. I guess you can't curse in a fucking bar."
We were all confused.
"They're throwing you out for cursing? What actually happened? Who did you curse at?"
It was then that the manager, a woman (unfortunately, because this guy clearly hates women), came up and told him it was time to pay his tab and go. He began to raise his voice at her, and I stepped in, stupidly between them, placing a hand on his chest.
"Hey, hey. It's okay, no need to make it worse than it is. Just chill out for a second."
Irritated, he did briefly listen, turning his attention to digging through his wallet before trying to get under the manager's skin by muttering about how ridiculous this whole thing was.
"Can't curse in a bar...makes no sense.."
"You know you can't use that word." she said flatly.
He hissed back, "It's just a word! People drink in here! They're gonna cuss!"
"Not the way you used it. It wasn't just a word."
They began screaming back and forth, Aaron getting more heated, with most of his argument being that he hadn't said anything wrong, and that nobody can take a joke.
I jumped in, trying to understand the situation"I'm sorry, but what word?"
Aaron looked away, but the manager didn't. "Rape."
"Wait what?" I asked. "This is for saying rape?"
"It's not for 'saying' rape, it's for threatening rape."
"WHAT?!" I grabbed Aaron by the arm "Who did you threaten?! Did you threaten someone!?"
He didn't answer me, but I looked around, frantically. Over by the table he was playing on were two women, one sobbing into her friend's arms. It turns out that rape joke wasn't a joke at all, and it wasn't directed at his pal, who'd disappeared already. I was horrified. Disgusted. Mortified. Livid. I was burning up with rage and embarrassment.
"Your boyfriend has three minutes to pay and get out, or I'm calling the cops."

Aaron paid his tab, stiffed the waitress, and wandered into the main bar area, getting in an argument with the bartender, who jumped over bar at him. While they were wrestling out the door, the manager was calling the police, and I went to the girls in the corner.
"Hi, I'm sorry, you don't know me--"
"Don't you have to go get your boyfriend?"
"Him? No, he's not my boyfriend. He's not even a friend. I don't know him. I'm on a Tinder date."
Both of them softened, and let me continue. I wanted to say that I was so sorry. I let them know he was kicked out now, and nobody should have to feel the way they were feeling. "If you want or need anything, I'll be here for just a little while longer, but it's on me."
They accepted this, understood I didn't want to be associated with that monster, and let me buy them each a beer. They came over to our table, which was by the window. We all wanted to watch the scene Aaron was making outside, and be sure he was leaving. At this point, several of us had several reasons to feel unsafe. He now had his shirt off, screaming at the night sky, alone. Very Marlon Brando. He did manage to peel out of the parking lot before police arrived, and we all agreed to hope he didn't hurt anyone on his way home.
While all of this was happening, Amy had been busy defending Todd, Mark, and myself. The other patrons were concerned and angry about the way my date had behaved, as word was travelling through the building quickly. They were wondering why we weren't all thrown out. She was making sure they knew it was a bad first date, and telling the story of waiting on him. She had also let her manager know none of us were really associated. One by one, other customers came up to express their condolences, offer protection if he came back, and one man even bought a round of shots for the lot of us (I didn't take mine). Even so, I was still so freaked out. The night only lasted a little less than two hours, most of it being spent with other people, and had been absolutely wild. It was just before midnight, and I knew I was going to head straight to my favorite bar, around the corner from my house, to sit and process everything that had happened. Even now, only I know just how much I've left out, but I'm trying not to write an entire book.
The girls left, and it was back to just being me and the boys. We couldn't stop talking about how crazy everything had gotten. He and the manager had been screaming over my head when I was in between them, glasses had been knocked over, he'd thrown a chair, things got nuts. Out of curiosity, we asked Amy for a copy of Aaron's receipt. We wanted to know how much he'd had to drink in his two hours, and I took a picture as a memento. As I tried to get the lighting right, I remembered something.
"Hey, Todd. Is he actually a personal trainer?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Oh."
"I'm guessing he left out what he actually does for a living. Smart. I would."
"The dancing thing? No, he told me about that. Made it sound past tense."
They were cackling again. I had to ask. "Do I even want to know? I don't even think I can get surprised at this point."
Mark smoothed my hair, "I know, it's been a rough night for you." He looked to Todd, "Maybe we should just tell her later."
Todd disagreed, and turned to me. "Don't you know where he was today?"
"He said he was at work."
"What did he say he was doing?"
"He said he had a photo shoot. He doesn't really seem like a model type, though,"
Todd shrugged. "He's kind of a model, sure."
I caught on. "So, what, it's nude or something? Oh God, is it porn?"
They looked at each other, then at me, and nodded.
"Oh, great," I said. "That's one for the books."
I couldn't help but notice their sudden lack of eye contact, as if there was more to tell me, but they were holding back. I had been standing with my purse, ready to walk out for most of this exchange, but now I sat back down. I readied myself.
"Guys." They looked at me. "Guys, just tell me. It's not like I'm ever going to talk to him again."
They each took a deep breath. Mark said a strange name, and asked if I had ever heard that name before. I hadn't. He then handed me his phone, and told me to Google the name followed by "videos," but told me not to click any of them. I searched, I saw, I gave Mark his phone back. None of us spoke for a few minutes. Eventually, I had to break the silence.
"So. He...does gay porn, then."
"Yeah, he's actually pretty well known."
"Y'know, I jokingly asked him earlier if he was famous, and he got pretty mad."
So many things suddenly made so much more sense. Mark again smoothed my hair, frizzed with August humidity, and probably stress. "Let's walk you out, girl."
Todd offered his arm, which I took. We all exchanged numbers, and I headed back north to my house.
I don't think I had quite processed the evening until a week or two later. I did get a text the next day from Aaron that read "Hey, things got a little crazy last night. I had a really great time with you :)"  Although I never responded, I still can't help but wonder what he found enjoyable about our time together. I forwarded it immediately to Todd and Mark, and we all shared a laugh. I contacted that mutual friend, Joseph, after a few days to tell him a little bit about it. He wasn't shocked, but he did feel bad that he didn't get to warn me before we went out. They aren't close. He also verified all the gossip I'd been told. And that was it. The worst first date I've ever been on. Sometimes, I almost forget about it, until something specific reminds me. A perfect example occurred nearly five months later, the day after Christmas, like a present. A random friend had posted an article about how a gay porn actor and his studio or agency or whatever, had gotten themselves in a legal bind over a film. The porn film had been quite offensive to a large group of people. Yes, pornography had crossed the line. Porn. But it was Aaron's picture, right there, front and center.

I don't really know how to wrap this up in a neat little bow, and it still feels a little surreal. Dating is the pits, man. However, no matter how nervous you may be about dating, you can at least rest easy in the knowledge that it would be very unlikely for you to also end up going out with an egotistical, misogynistic, tequila pounding, loud, gay porn star who managed to make porn that was too offensive, who doesn't tip, and gets violently thrown out of a bar for threatening to rape a woman simply because she was in the way of his pool shot. But if you do, make sure you take a picture of the tab so we can compare drunks.

xoxo

F*ck You, I'm Nice

When I was born, my family had a big, red mutt named Dillard. Well, actually his name was Phil, which is short for Phillip, which happens to be my grandfather's name. So, my dad, being reasonably uncomfortable calling a dog by his own father's name, decided to adapt. Dillard was a runner, a climber, and fiercely loving toward his people. He was my first friend. In fact, he is the first person (fur-person) I can remember loving. That's not to say I didn't love my parents or siblings, just that I don't remember developing relationships with them. I think loving your caretakers is just a factory setting. But that dog was something else. He was a protector, my pillow, my entertainment, and he just adored me. He'd lick my head if I was upset (or if I wasn't), and he knew how to play hide and seek, which was rad even if he was always the seeker. Basically, before I go on any longer, Dillard was the best god damn dog ever. I've loved all of my furry companions, and they've all loved me, but I think Dillard has that tiny edge of being the first, and he will always be special to me. He had an incredibly long, adventurous life of nearly eighteen years, before finally crossing the rainbow bridge when I was nine years old.
I found out when I arrived home from school the day he passed. I knew something was terribly wrong when both of my parents were home in the middle of the day, and everything was just silent. Since we all went to different schools at the time (high school, middle school, elementary) my oldest brother already knew, and my middle brother would find out about an hour or so after I did. I was told my buddy just didn't wake up that day. Our house was stuffed with an excruciating sadness, and I clearly remember thinking we'd never be happy again. That's a nine year old for you, though.
It wasn't until the next year, when I was in fifth grade (still considered one of the rougher years of my childhood) that I found out Dillard had, in fact, awakened on his last day. My brother let it slip that my parents had our beloved pup put down. Now, looking back, I am grateful they did. The last bit of Dillard's life was rough. He was in so much pain, and he was so weak. There was a while that my dad would carry him up and down the stairs so he could interact during the day, and sleep in his bed at night, but slowly, he never came upstairs again. Eventually, he only got up to use the bathroom, and even that was a struggle. He had every right to peace, and my parents absolutely made the right decision. There's no telling how much longer he would have held on. Good job, parents. Unfortunately, I had been having a hell of a time adjusting to many things that were happening to me, and when my brother reopened the wound that was my first friend, as well as confirming my parents had lied right to me, I was not crushed, but I was furious. Everything had been changing so quickly for me in school (probably a story for a different day, but it was propelled by one teacher trying to convince my other teachers, as well as my family, that I had a learning disability which I didn't have), and I felt as though I'd been drowning in the opinions of adults who wouldn't listen. I felt disregarded, unheard, and ultimately dismissed by nearly every grown up meant to protect me, and now my parents had LIED.
Which leads me to the first time I intentionally hurt someone. Not physically, of course, but with my words. It was my dad. I don't know why I chose him. I guess I just assumed he was the decision maker because he was louder than my mom. Sure, I could throw a tantrum with the best of them, but this was different. This wasn't me trying to get my way, or get out my feelings, this was me wanting to make someone else feel the pain I was feeling. I retreated to my room, and waited for dinner, when I planned to confront this most heinous crime. Finally, when my family was gathered for our supper, I wouldn't answer anyone. I spent most of the time sighing and rolling my eyes dramatically. Eventually, I was called out for my cold and rude behavior with a "What is the matter with you?!" which was just the opening I needed. Nobody saw it coming.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because you MURDERED MY DOG."

To this day, I'm pretty sure it was the most hurtful sentence I've ever said to Pops, and I'm fairly certain I threw in an "I hate you" or two around thirteen. He didn't say anything except "wow" under his breath. I stood my ground for all of about four seconds before apologizing, but it was no use. The damage was done. I can still see the look on his face. I realized very quickly that what I had done had made me feel worse, not better. I received no satisfaction from "revenge." God, it felt just terrible. But I also realized that my tongue was sharp, and my aim was fantastic, which was a rather unfortunate recognition.

Over the next few years, as my peers became more and more awful at being decent human beings (like most teenagers), I became more and more skilled at cutting people with words. It wasn't for amusement or pleasure, it was for my own defense, but eventually my fuse became short. After a while, it became second nature to hit below the belt. For a little bit, I was pretty ruthless and pretty reckless with people's feelings, all because I believed they'd been reckless with mine. It was exhausting being on such high alert at all times, though. Constantly waiting for someone to wrong me so I could push them away swiftly and harshly. I wouldn't scream or yell or name call, but I had a tendency to just make someone feel small. I developed a knack for figuring out exactly what a person's fear or insecurity was, and I became ready to exploit it at a moment's notice. It made me think I was invincible, even if all it really meant was that I was an insecure, angry young woman who was so afraid of letting her guard down that she would hiss and scratch and claw her way out of the lives of anyone who tried to get too close. I was basically a shelter cat on her first day out of the sewer.
Each time I cut someone down, I would feel worse, but it had become such a nasty habit. It took a long time, and witnessing several other people behaving the same way, to make me realize I wasn't who I wanted to be. Most of the time, my friendships only stayed broken because I was too ashamed of my behavior to come crawling back to apologize. My ability to talk things out efficiently improved before the rest of it, but all in all, I was really kind of a jerk for a few years. Luckily, I was young enough to be dumb for it.
Honestly, the change was sort of overnight. I really did wake up one morning and go "no more." Maybe it was whatever dream I'd had the night before, or maybe some slow, imperceptible change that was bubbling under the surface, but for me and my conscious reality, it was instant. I think I was seventeen. When I went into work that day, the same kid who annoyed me every day gave me his usual crap, but I smiled at him, put on my apron, and laughed along with him instead of walking away irritated. This actually made him try a lot harder to get under my skin, but I was determined to remain bright eyed and friendly. I had a theory that if I could keep my cool and not let myself feel angry about the things this particular person said or did, that I could tolerate practically anyone. Seriously, this guy was the worst. It worked. Actually, it worked so well that we went to grab lunch one day and talk everything over, since we worked together nearly every day. You might be thinking "duh" or "yeah, everyone knows you have to turn the other cheek sometimes" but it's deeper than that. Just because you don't say something, doesn't mean someone didn't hurt your feelings. I could turn the other cheek, and I could bite my tongue. Hell, I was a waitress back then, so it's not that I would get into a heated verbal altercation every day. In fact, by that time, it did take a decent amount to set me off, but I would want to say something every day. I did have anger every day. I didn't want to be so enraged, and I definitely didn't want to hurt anyone. Who wants to be mad all day long? What I realized that morning, what made me dedicate the last more-than-a-decade to validating the feelings of others, was that for every time I let someone dictate my mood, I was harming myself, and setting myself up for the potential to harm someone else. I thought of it in terms of a resource, like power. Every time I gave power away to people who didn't like me, or didn't respect me, that was power I wasn't going to get back. This meant that I had to generate even more of that power every day, every hour, and I had to use so much of it just to stay pissed off and ready to defend myself against perceived attacks, that it was simply unrealistic to maintain. It sounds trite, but I started greeting anger with compassion because that's really all I wanted someone else to do for me. In this whole "get what you give" universe, I figured if I, a kind, compassionate person on the inside, was capable of lashing out and creating a shell because I was hurt, then I would assume the same applied to everyone else. I would recognize that if someone is hurting me, it's because they also hurt.
For years now, my arguments have been discussions, and I've hardly a grudge. Sure, there are still traumas and things to work through, but as far as still being mad at Sally SoandSo from middle school? No. Hardly a grudge. Truthfully, I can't imagine what things would be like right now if I was still full of all that bitterness of top of everything else. Sure, I can still be pushed if somebody really, truly wants to push me, but it takes an incredible amount to get me to go off. I also hope none of this is coming across as self righteous, or holier than thou, because I'm not better than anyone. I've backslid a few times here and there. I'm very human, and I also have a ridiculous hormone imbalance. I get bitchy, I have awful days, and sometimes I still snap at people. But what I don't do anymore is hang onto that anger. I won't allow you to ruin my day because of your poor attitude, but I'll recognize your poor attitude probably had nothing to do with me. I can't take it personally if it isn't personal. More than that, nowadays if people are bad for me, I walk away from them. Not everything deserves an emotional, Hollywood ending. No burning bridges, no hateful sendoffs, no explosions. It's saved me a lot of time and trouble, and it's also given me plenty of opportunity to understand the difference between someone who is toxic for me and someone who is just working through their demons.
At the end of the day, we can't control how people act, but we can control how we react to them. And wouldn't things be a hell of a lot better if we reacted with a little more understanding? Wouldn't you appreciate it if just once, someone would want to genuinely discuss a topic with you instead of yelling about how your opinion is wrong? Wouldn't you be more inclined to listen, and be open to someone else's thoughts if they refrained from calling you names while they explained their side?

Just like everyone, I have grown from my experiences. We all make mistakes. We can all learn. We can all change. I'm proud of everyone who can admit their faults and work on them, and I'm proud of myself for working on mine. Being a work in progress feels a lot better than resigning myself to being some defective finished product. I haven't turned into a different person, and I'm still pretty "abused shelter cat" -ish when it comes to personal relationships, but my claws aren't quite as sharp as they used to be. I still have them, though, and I can sharpen them any time. In other words, fuck you, I'm really nice.

xoxo

Lazy Eyed Mike

Let me begin by saying that I do not condone making fun of people for things outside of their control, but every now and again, when a person's personality is just ugly enough, everything feels like fair game. Sorry about it. That's just how I feel.

Now. About this dude:

Plenty Of Fish is a Christian dating site that has become wildly popular among the most disgruntled, most perverted, and downright unwholesome of online daters. I'm not even Christian (what, are you shocked?) but neither is anyone else there. I didn't know any of this until I gave it a shot. After a week or two of wading through questionable messages which were riddled with spelling errors, and profiles which treated grammar and punctuation as abstract theories, Michael caught my eye. It wasn't that he was particularly well spoken, or particularly attractive. I think it was probably the fact that the message he sent me was sane. It wasn't clever, but it was nice. "Hi, you seem like an interesting girl. How's your week?" After everything else I saw on that website, I figured it couldn't hurt to entertain some conversation. It went all right.
After exchanging numbers to continue our discussion, it became clear that we didn't share many similar views. It's okay by me when humans have differing opinions, but not everyone welcomes the views of others. He didn't like a debate, and people who didn't agree with him were swiftly deemed idiots. Still, I wasn't looking for anything in particular. At the time, I just wanted to stretch my social muscles, and if I met a man I wanted to see again, that would be a bonus. As you've probably guessed already, Michael was not going to be that man.

It took about a week or so before he asked me to meet him for dinner, and as reluctant as I was, I did say yes. His energy immediately changed, and he was suddenly quite nervous, if not entirely skeptical. I spent the day before our first date answering a million questions about my appearance. On any given dating profile, I only like to use pictures of my face, and my hair tends to be different in each one. The explanation is a simple one: no matter your body type, when you use full body pictures, people get creepier. I also change my hair a lot, and don't take too many pictures in between. When he asked me about it, my ready answer was not sufficient, somehow. But how tall am I? How much do I weigh, since I said I was thin? What color is my hair right now? How old am I again? How long or short is my hair? How old are the pictures? He couldn't find me online, is Lea even my real name? My answer was a picture of myself, holding up a piece of paper with the day's date, my age, and the words "NOT A CATFISH. CHILL OUT. -LEA."
All his questions did get me thinking, so I went back to his profile. I noticed that all of his pictures had the same pose, and the same expression, but he was wearing different shirts. He was turned slightly to the side, giving a slight smirk. He never mentioned how tall he was, but as a short person, I never quite feel right asking. He looked like an everyday, average dude. Cool with me. I wasn't too afraid he would appear much different, but he had started to get on my nerves already, which was not too encouraging.
Michael gave me a call around 5pm or so to ask if I knew where my local Chili's was. Now, I'm not too good for Chili's or anything, I just really dig creativity, and big chain restaurants feel boring. Not hating, I promise. A good first date can happen anywhere, because it's all about the two people involved. I'd just be lying if I said I didn't get a kick out of it when a guy shows a little individuality. I'd rather eat from a food truck, and have an adventure instead of going to sit down in a stuffy restaurant with a bunch of screaming children. Sue me. Effort is hot. Of course, I didn't tell him any of this, I just said I knew where it was, and I'd see him there.
Upon arrival, I was a bit underwhelmed. He was a small man, in an over sized t-shirt and dirty jeans, with a large margarita in front of him. It fell in line with that whole creativity and effort concern I had. The greeting was not great.
"Lea? Oh, man. Hi. You're not fat at all!"
"I know that."
"Yeah, you said you weren't. I just figured you were lying. My ex lied a lot. And she was kind of fat."

*Record scratch* Lots wrong with that. I probably don't need to break it down, but I will. Problem one, it's rude to comment on someone's weight. Problem two, it's not cool to tell someone you just assumed they were a liar. Problem Three, it's super not rad to not only immediately mention your ex, her lying problem, and your disdain before I can even sit down, but to insult her appearance. Problem four, don't lump me in with your lying, "kinda fat" ex girlfriend.
As I'm sure you can imagine, this was very uncomfortable. Then I sat down across from him, and realized why all of his pictures were taken from the same angle. His eyes were not pointed in the same direction. At all. They seemed to move independently of each other, and I had no idea which one to focus on. It was distracting, but I was determined not to let him see that I'd noticed. I tried my best to determine which eyeball was looking at me, but it was impossible. And I know I sound like a jerk right now, but really, I promise I'm not just picking on someone to be a bully. I'm trying to paint the picture. There's a trend among dates I'm not attracted to, and it's the fact that their personalities are ugly to me. And while I understand this man was obviously hurting and not recovered from his previous relationship, it did not make up for his behavior, and over the course of the next forty five minutes to an hour, he would repeatedly prove how unattractive he really was. Hideous. Basically a monster.
Before I had a chance to look at the menu, our waitress came by to greet me. I didn't even have the chance to speak before Michael ordered for me. "She'll have one of these," gesturing to his margarita. He also ordered both of our entrees without so much as asking me what I eat. I was stunned. Because of certain health issues, there are lots of items I can't eat or drink without significant pain, and margaritas are pretty high on that list. Raw onions are also up there, and whatever he ordered for me had lots of them. When I barely touched my drink, he was irritated, and mentioned how nice it would be if women were more grateful for the money he spent on them. The food caused more of the same.
 I knew pretty immediately after arriving this would be a short date, but everything he said seemed to cut it shorter. I attempted reasonable discussion to no avail. If I wasn't completely put off by his blatant disregard for my feelings or opinions, I was put off by the bad mouthing of ex girlfriends; specifically the fat, lazy, rude, ungrateful cheater he thought he'd marry. I eventually grew mildly fascinated with the way he could go from praising her for being the most amazing woman he'd ever met, to trash talking her for being a succubus. My interest did quickly wane, though, and I stopped paying attention. As I glanced at my phone under the table, the subject only shifted slightly. I was only half listening, but I know for damn sure the guy she cheated with was named Steven. Steven was an old friend. Steven should have known better. Steven will get what's coming to him. Steven should think twice before showing his face around town. Steven has a girlfriend now, and she better treat him like the idiot he is. He hopes to run into Steven's girlfriend, so he can show Steven how it feels to be betrayed by a friend. In the end, I was slightly concerned for Steven, but that lazy eye somehow made Michael a lot less threatening. I'm sorry I keep bringing it up, but it was severe. And his attitude was unsavory, which only made it worse. I was also sober, and starving.

As if the evening wasn't bad enough, when he finally got done rambling on about his past and the people who made it suck, he began to badger me about my political beliefs, which is something I strongly suggest nobody do on a first date. I won't divulge my beliefs here, but I will say they could not have been further from his. He didn't try to hide his disapproval, either. Scoffing, laughing, rolling his eye (sorry). He was beyond rude. Our waitress could tell things were awful. When I got up to use the restroom and call a friend, she followed me, asking if I wanted to exit through the kitchen. She wasn't kidding. I should have taken her up on it, but I didn't. Sadly, nobody was answering that evening, and I was going to have to get out of this on my own. I figured I would just go back, explain I had to run off, and then run off. The only problem was getting a word in edgewise with this guy.

When I returned to the table, Michael was mid-argument with a manager about an expired coupon. He was demanding the meal be comped for the inconvenience. He used my barely consumed drink and dinner as an example of their horrible service and food. I decided to push back a bit.I refused to sit back down, and I wasn't going to let this petulant man-child speak to people in that way.
"I'm sorry. Everything was fine. I just wasn't hungry, but I'd love a to-go box." I glared down at my date, who was bright red and angry. I took the check from in front of him, as he argued loudly about wanting to pay. I practically hissed at him, "You're embarrassing yourself. I'll get it." Without even reading the numbers, I handed my debit card to the manager, ignoring the yammering in my ear. When the manager walked away, I was staring down at my date. Furious.

"What is your problem? You wanted a free meal, you got a free meal."
"Yeah, from THEM. They were supposed to pay for it, since THEY messed it up."
"They didn't mess anything up. Quit yelling. For fuck's sake, dude."

But he didn't stop yelling. He yelled louder, and he stood up to put his face in mine. He was making quite a scene, only now it was directed at me instead of the staff. After getting my card back, I quickly signed the receipt, threw some cash on the table for a tip, and headed for the door. Michael followed, screaming for me to turn around and talk to him, to face him, to stop being such a "little bitch." At that point, two male employees had come in between us. I heard one of them telling him to stop following me, or they'd call the police. One ran to catch up to me, walking me to my car and making sure I was all right. I really wasn't. I don't know anyone who enjoys getting yelled at, but ever since living for a few years with a man who was constantly screaming at me, calling me names, and telling me outright that I am worthless, screaming conjures up some horrible feelings for me. Some call it PTSD, or getting "triggered," but whatever it is, it's awful. I'm really glad those two guys stepped in, though. There's no telling what would have happened. Michael was practically unhinged. I wasn't unfamiliar with drunk men acting unhinged.
I drove a mile or two down the road before pulling over into a parking lot. I sobbed. It was like being out with my awful, abusive ex boyfriend all over again. I wasn't sure of anything, and I was beyond worn out, but it passed far more quickly than I expected. Just as I was wrapped in the calm that usually accompanies the end of a good cry, I began to feel strong. Hopeful. I can't quite explain it, but the evening felt like a test, and in that moment, I knew I'd passed. I watched traffic whizzing by, saw the sun going down, and for what could have been five seconds or five hours, felt a peace I never expected. After a while, I dug the receipt from dinner out of my purse, wondering just how much I'd spent. There was a charge for $1.00 and the manager's phone number. All I could do was shake my head and laugh. I headed for home, made myself some dinner, and slept wonderfully alone.

Turns out it wasn't the worst date I'd been on.

xoxo

How to Lose a Guy Friend (In 11 Years)

I'm going to cut to the chase real quick on this one, everybody. The advice train is barreling through here at rapid speed today, so here it is. Ready?
If you want to lose a long time friend of whatever sex you're attracted to, go ahead and sleep with them.

Yeah, that's right. Your old pal, Lea, isn't a stranger to making that rookie mistake. Now let me be a little more clear, because this doesn't apply to all friendships. It's true that sometimes people can have those types of arrangements and be just fine. Sometimes, it's a classic case of one thing leading to another, and everyone agrees it was no big deal. I do believe it's the type of friendship you have before the sex that determines whether or not smashing is the single most absurd, unnecessary, and ultimately heartbreaking decision to make. For instance, if your friendship is very surface level, and you aren't particularly attached, or particularly attracted, or maybe you guys just party a lot, then you could probably get away with laughing off a drunken night spent with a buddy. Depending on your level of comfort, getting over it could take minutes to months to years, but you recover just fine. Maybe your other friends even find it a funny story later. Maybe it becomes a running joke among your inner circle. Maybe you end up marrying his best friend. Maybe at the wedding, someone makes a slurred, inappropriate allusion into a microphone, in front of God and everybody, to the time you screwed the best man. Maybe that turns into a running gag, and the hilarity of you banging whatever that guy's name is becomes the friendly ghost that forever haunts you and your family. Who's to say?
However, if the friendship you have with someone is a close one, look out. Especially if you're both attracted to each other, and a common trend when you go out is that nobody understands why on Earth you two aren't dating. Double especially if they're one of your very closest friends, and they often tell you how much they love you. Triple especially with super duper bonus points if in public,  when inevitably asked how long you've been dating, despite the fact that you are not actually dating, he likes to proudly throw out how many years you've known each other. If that's the case, DON'T FUCKING DO IT. YOU SAID NO FOR TEN YEARS FOR A REASON, YOU STUPID, STUPID BITCH.

Ahem. I apologize. That was harsh. What I meant to say is, if you have the sort of friendship that looks a lot like a romantic relationship to everyone else, and you spent years refusing to sleep with them (whatever the reason), then the best way to make sure it goes down in flames is to start sleeping together. Just don't do it. It's a trap. Even if he looks like Matthew McConaughey and treated you like a princess for a decade, that shit will shut down. I promise you.
Of course, you could be one of the lucky ones. One of the people who ends up all happily ever after with this type of friend. If you're one of those, then good job. You landed the big one, and we're all very happy for you. Now get out of here. This post is for the slightly bitter. We'll call you in for the next one, but this class is full.

Anyway, what happened to me did hurt, but I've recently come to grips with mourning the loss of a person who's very much still alive. We were friends for years. We met outside of a shopping mall. As it turned out, he was there to dump a girlfriend who had cheated on him. I didn't find out about the girlfriend until a few weeks after we'd exchanged numbers, but I forgave it. We went on our first date, which turned out to be both humiliating and hilarious, but maybe a story for a different day. From there, we decided not to continue dating. If I remember correctly, it was due to me making up with my on again/off again high school sweetheart, from my first high school, but this friend actually attended the one I was transferring to, and we were inseparable once I arrived. We went everywhere together. If you saw one of us, you saw the other, and teachers just assumed we were attached at the hip. He skipped class, so did I; he wrecked his truck, I was in it. On it went that way, for years (thankfully with only one wreck). Our friendship grew, and I loved him dearly. He moved away for college, and I moved around the state a few times, but we always kept in touch. He had relationships, and so did I. We were supportive of one another, and I knew I could always count on him to be there for me. I always knew he'd visit, and I always knew he'd care. He'd been there for several major life events, and I had no reason to really believe that would ever change. We had proven over and over again that we would not forget one another.

I've been through a fair amount of rough times, but if I ever for any reason needed any saving, I always knew who to call. Most young women would first call a brother, her father, or her boyfriend, but I almost always called my friend. He saved me a million times, from various disasters, with various solutions. One even involved a casino in Biloxi. It was quite an experience, and a memory I cherish. I'll always be grateful for all of those times. For years, he defended me, he challenged me, he laughed with me, cried with me, taught me, loved me, and he spoiled me rotten. He's single handedly responsible for my mild princess complex, and never denies it.
However, when one of the most important aspects of friendship is honesty, and another is respect, it gets frustrating when you feel you aren't getting those things anymore. Resentment begins to set in like a cancer, making the maintenance of the relationship, and the repairs of minor damage from general wear and tear more and more difficult. It started as soon as the sex did. It was just a bad idea, but I had no reason to believe so. For years before, we would talk about our feelings, and it would sound as if we were going to move forward. We'd weigh the pros and cons of being together, and on several occasions actually decide to follow through with being together, briefly considering ourselves a couple. As you can imagine, it was pretty easy to let my guard down and sleep with my own boyfriend. Unfortunately, each time we "dated" he would end up getting scared after a few days or weeks, and running away. It was infuriating, as I'd watched him easily commit to other relationships over the years, even when he wasn't that into them. I couldn't understand. If we both really had the same feelings for each other, like we always said we did, then why the constant hesitation? It wasn't coming from me. He'd always tell me he was just too afraid to lose me, but if that was the case, he was doing a piss poor job at making me want to stick around. I would be upset for a while, eventually forgive him, and we'd make up. Everything would be fine, and we'd be friends, until I would let my guard down and it would happen all over again. It quickly turned into a vicious cycle. I'm not saying I didn't say and do my fair share of stupid things, all told, but I am saying I guess I viewed it differently. For him, it was more "we're such good friends, why are you so mad? You're just as much a part of this as I am! You can't be angry at something we've both done!" But for me, that wasn't true. I didn't feel we had done the same things. Worse, I didn't feel he even wanted to understand how he'd hurt me. He literally didn't want to hear it. He had shut down. Personally, I was beginning to feel like a place holder. Someone he would be with in between girlfriends, or as a rebound, and I felt disgusting. I couldn't handle it anymore, and eventually I told him I couldn't. With all of my feelings, I couldn't be all right anymore if this was what was going to happen. I told him I truly appreciated everything he has ever done for me, and I truly do, but I couldn't participate and be a good friend. My emotions were clouding everything, and I had to wish him well. He'd made my dating life hell for years, and I knew that as long as he was giving me an inch of hope, I wouldn't be able to get over him. I'd been living the same heartache over and over again for years, and it was getting worse every time. It had eclipsed our friendship, and all I could do was hope that the eclipse was temporary.

Over the course of the next year, I made several attempts to reach out and bury the hatchet. We'd make plans and not follow through with them. I'd never hear from him until I again reached out after a few more months had passed. It was painful. With the rapid decline in my health over the last few months in particular, I decided I had to try again. The truth is, I've never gone through anything quite as tough as what I've been going through, without my old friend. It was so hard to imagine making it through to the other side of this mess without his support. We talked, and I expressed this through a billion tears while hardly breathing, but he listened. That Friday, I saw him for the first time in over a year, and it did not go as planned. At all. His sister was actually going to have a baby within the next day or two (nobody had even told me she was pregnant), so his parents came to visit. They're great, it was just unexpected, and I was already holding on through waves of panic. It was a personal disaster for me. I also definitely wasn't prepared to meet his girlfriend, whom I had been previously assured wouldn't be joining us. Especially when our falling out had to do more with failed romance than anything. All I actually wanted was to spend a few hours catching up with a person I felt I needed in my life. I only wanted to spend some one on one time that didn't involve entertaining others, meeting any strangers, answering uncomfortable questions, or getting in a fight with each other. My anxiety was through the roof, when I'd only wanted to escape it for the evening. When I left his house that night, I knew we were changed forever.
It's been a while now, and a few weeks ago, it occurred to me I was all done. I never received an update on the baby, or even a picture, despite asking my friend for such things, and despite knowing the family for years. In fact, my old friend has not thought to check on me or even answer a message once since I last saw him. But you know what? I'm not angry. I think I'm sort of liberated. And while I did lose someone close, I do have to remind myself that he lost me, too, through his own words and actions. Like I said, it did hurt. I will never say it's been an easy place to get to, but I have now accepted his absence. For the first time in nearly twelve years, I don't actually want him to be around. I no longer trust him or his heart, and as far as I'm concerned, his actions have shown me that he just isn't the same. Maybe I'm not the same, either. Actually, I know I'm not. The reason I'm writing this isn't to bash anyone, it's the final piece. This is a eulogy for the amazing friendship I was fortunate enough to share with a wonderful man for as long as I was able. People change. Circumstances change. I know now that if I'm not feeling valued, I can have the strength to let go, and the courage to forgive. Sure, I could stay angry forever at the mean things we said, or some of the events that occurred, but that just seems like a whole lot of effort for no reward whatsoever.

And so, my dear friends, I leave you with just a little more advice. If there is someone in your life whom you absolutely adore, you must must MUST communicate with them. It's all about communication, y'all. Most arguments can be boiled down to misunderstanding, and it's best to tackle those while they're still small. Don't let it snowball into something so painful. With open, honest, loving communication, there's hardly any challenge too tough to handle. Once you've done your part, it is up to them to do the same. If they don't, and you cut them off, at least you'll know you did what you could. Don't keep toxicity around, guys. Even if letting go hurts sometimes, you'll be better off for it in the end.

xoxo


Ps. I know what you're thinking. "But, Lea, you don't know MY friend. He's basically Prince Charming! That would never happen!" Well, ma'am, I have just two suggestions: One, read this again, but maybe a little slower. Two, smack yourself in the face real hard. Just kidding. Kind of. Definitely re-read, but please don't ever hurt yourself. Of course I hope your story doesn't end like mine, but an overwhelming majority of the time, these things do. Remember, if someone wants to be with you, they will put in the effort to do so. If they don't, just keep moving along, because you are undoubtedly fabulous.

xxooxxoo

Florida, But Three Times

Growing up, my grandparents lived in a beautiful little condo community on Longboat Key, and it didn't take long for me to fall in love with Florida. I'm still smitten. Ah, Florida. The beaches, the salty air, the marvelous sun, the friendly people, the drag queens of Jacksonville, the fact that murder is basically legal... I could go on and on. It's a fascinating, wonderful state. In fact, it is so wonderful, that as an adult, I have made several (three, to be exact) trips there, completely on a whim, all of which I feel could be novellas of their own. The planned trips I've taken there just aren't the same. And so, since I don't write novellas, I've decided to compile all of the very abridged versions here, for your reading pleasure, and for my nostalgia.

The first time I took off on a random beach adventure, it was an accident. I was 19. I worked as a waitress, in a bar just north of Atlanta, lived with my boyfriend, and I was the proud owner of a hand me down 1992 Chrysler LeBaron Lx convertible, with a busted back window, and a blown convertible top motor. Truly, I had it made. Unfortunately, I was restless. It's not that anything was terribly wrong, but there's something about dating a close friend that people forget to mention. Sometimes, when there's no conflict or adventure because you both know each other too well, and you're only 19, one can start to feel...bored. Suffocated. Not that your partner is boring or suffocating, but relationships sometimes have periods of stagnancy. That night, I was bored with everything, and with everyone. I got off of work, and began to head home, but took a detour. Instead of turning onto 41 North, I turned onto 41 South, and kept going. After about an hour, I told myself I should get home, that it was really late, and Jon might be getting worried. I usually got home right after he did, but I kept driving. Around 3am, I heard my phone ring, and didn't answer it. The voicemail rolled in, but I didn't check it. I kept driving. It was as if I was possessed. I needed to keep going, I needed to be away. Not for long, but just for a little while. I stopped for gas, and told myself to head home, but I just couldn't. I didn't even know where I was headed, I just knew I had to go. Before I knew it, I was in Florida, and it was around 6am. My busted up Chrysler had fared well. I stopped off to look at a map, and realized if I kept on, I was headed straight for Sarasota, right near where my grandparents had spent the rest of their lives. Something in me was telling me to go there, and I didn't deny myself the opportunity. When I arrived, I sneaked into the complex, and headed straight for the beach. I sat in silence, all alone, for only a few minutes before my dad called. I figured Jon must have called him to see if I was all right, and I was super not looking forward to explaining that I had driven my run down vehicle hours away, without telling anyone, and with no real backup plan for possible disaster. I decided not to answer. I called Jon back. Part of what makes this such a fond memory was the reaction I got from one of the people closest to me. For a while, I'd been struggling with not feeling understood and I was frustrated because I knew I needed something, I just didn't know what it was or how to ask for it. That morning, even if he was a little confused, he was very much not phased by my brief escape, or my need for space. I felt completely validated.
J:  Hey! Where are you? Are you okay?
L: Hey! Yeah, I'm good. In Florida.
J: What?
L: I'm in Florida.
J: What do you mean?
L: I mean what it sounds like. I am currently in Florida.
J: ...You're where?
L: Jon.
J: Yeah?
L: I went to Florida.
J: You didn't come home?
L: No.
J: Oh. Are you going to?
L: Yeah.
J: When?
L: Don't know. Probably in a few minutes.
J: But you just got there. You aren't gonna have a beach day or something?
L: Nah. Just came to say hello to the ocean. Been at the beach for a bit. I'll be home in a few hours.
J: Do you want to talk on your way back?
L: No, everything's good. I just needed a long drive.
J: You got one. Hey, did you take the LeBaron?
L: Yeah.
J: Really?! Damn, glad it made it.
L: Same here.
J: Call me if it blows up.
L: Will do.
J: Your dad's gonna be pissed.
L: I know.
J: Are we telling him?
L: We are not.

And that was all. I felt renewed. All I wanted was to see the water, and smell the salt, and it was exactly what I needed.

The second time I found myself on a last minute road trip, I was with a dear friend of mine, Eric. I was 21, I think. We had become pretty close, pretty quickly, and he was introducing me to some of his friends. Sitting in his buddy's room, we were trying to plan the rest of the day. He asked me what I wanted to do.
"I want to go to the beach."
"What beach?"
I shrugged. "Any beach?"
"Okay, well let's go!"
He asked his friends if they wanted to come with us, and they all declined. They didn't believe we were serious, but we were. They told us there was no way we were going to go on a road trip at 4 in the afternoon, but they were wrong. Eric and I left to go gather supplies, make the necessary schedule adjustments, and call around to see who was going to join us. We lucked out, and recruited one of our favorite friends, Pat. We all agreed to take Pat's truck, and his parents even packed us some snacks. Everything was smooth sailing. We hadn't chosen a destination, we only decided to take 75 South, and we'd pick a beach later.
Along the way, I realized we could stop off to see one of my best friends in Valdosta. Eric and Pat didn't need much convincing, since we already had no schedule. As luck would have it, my Valdosta friend was having a little get together. We all hung around, shared a bunch of laughs, and took some pictures with our road trip mascot, a bobble head Boba Fett. Eventually, we were back on the road, and had unanimously decided on Cocoa Beach. Upon arrival, we found our hotel, and immediately started in on one of our two handles of Captain Morgan. For the next few days, it was nothing but great friends, sunshine, and shenanigans. To this day, we have so many jokes that came from that trip, and I still have a hundred pictures. It was yet another situation where I felt so valued by those close to me. My boys made sure I was safe, happy, and comfortable, and I love them for it. At that time in my life, I really needed a getaway. I got one.

The third whimsical excursion to the great state of Florida actually began in a bar on St Simons Island. I was 22. I lived on the mainland, in a cozy apartment with Jon. We decided to go out to the island for dinner and drinks. In a dingy dive, I spotted Cameron. She was beautiful, and had gorgeous tattoos, and seemed full of life. She was also being hit on by a very persistent young man, and I noticed she was starting to get annoyed. As far as girl code goes, I take it very seriously when I see a woman getting bothered by some guy at the bar, so I stepped in to make friends. It turned out Cameron really didn't need much saving, but she appreciated the gesture, and came to hang out with me. I introduced her to Jon, and one of his friends from school. Of course, Jon's school buddy had quite the crush on the new girl. She let him down easy, explaining he just wasn't her type. She preferred women. For some reason, that made me laugh harder than any of the jokes told all evening. I think it was the look on the guy's face. Still, we all had a blast that night. Swapping stories, roaming the street, and taking a walk out on the pier. My new friend was actually on a family vacation, and although she had to head home in a few days, she suggested we hang out the next night, when her friend was going to visit from Jacksonville. I was still pretty new in town, and even though she didn't live there herself, it was nice to feel like I was making friends and fitting in.
The next night, we all met at the same place, and I was introduced to the charming Elizabeth. She and I hit it off right away. After a while, she mentioned there was a drag show she was going to be missing, and the ball started rolling. The three of us girls were suddenly hellbent on going to that show. Jacksonville was only about an hour away, and how much fun would it be to run off for an impromptu girl's trip? Jon wasn't thrilled, but found the whole thing hilarious. "No, no. By all means, run off with two lesbians you don't know to hang out with a bunch of drag queens you also don't know, in another state. I kinda wish I was going, too!" We all promised in unison to be very, very safe. And we were. Sorta.
We all climbed into Elizabeth's car, and off we went. The drag show was too much fun. I can't even recall everyone I met, and there was an incredible amount of dancing. After it was over, we went to Elizabeth's apartment, where Cameron and I insisted we break into the pool. Against her better judgement, Elizabeth conceded, and gathered some towels. After climbing the fence, breaking my phone, skinny dipping, then streaking through the complex and accidentally flashing two Army soldiers, we all decided it was time to make food and nap. The night was a whirlwind. Only a couple hours later, we were hungover and exhausted, but it was time to go. I drove so they could sleep. We dropped Cameron off at her hotel, and then headed to my place, where we recuperated briefly before Elizabeth had to head home.
Of all the random new friend adventures I've been on, this was probably my favorite. When you meet people you can immediately be comfortable and laugh with, it is a truly beautiful thing. Especially when you're new in town, and feeling like you'll never connect with anyone. I haven't seen those girls since, but we try to keep in touch.

I try to remember all of these times when I feel crowded or restless. It's nice to know that through all things, and in all situations, the universe will find a way to give me what I need, even if what I need sounds ridiculous.

xoxo

My First Crush

All throughout elementary school, I was in looooove with one of my friends. Doodled his name in my binder and everything. He was funny, and cute, and smart, and for some reason he liked spending time with me. He would hang in the woods behind my house, and was always excited to run into me there, in the treehouse my oldest brother helped me rebuild twice. I could always count on him for an adventure, and we had plenty of them for the first couple years we knew each other. His name was David.

We got a little older, and he got a little more popular. He made other friends, who didn't think I was as cool (or maybe I didn't think I was as cool), and instead of being sweet to me, he started picking on me. He didn't have much fodder at first, but eventually he found a way to hit me where it hurt. In fifth grade, I had to switch from the gifted program back to regular classes because of a B I received. Social Studies, I believe. I've always been horrible at geography somehow. No clue how; it's not like continents will move enough in my lifetime to prevent me from memorizing the globe, but I digress. When my class realized the switch had been made, they were ruthless. David led the verbal assaults, snickering about how the Target Program must have finally caught on that I was dumb. When the rest of the kids in the program got up to go to the other classroom, I now had to stay behind. It was insult to injury.

"HEY! LEA'S NOT GOING TO TARGET! HEY! LEA! WHY AREN'T YOU GOING?!"
"I'm not going anymore."
"Yeah, I know! Because they found out you were TOO STUPID!"
"I'm not stupid."
"Yeah, okay. You only think that because you're too stupid to think anything else."

Sure, his joke writing needed some work, but it was enough to make me miserable. Week after week, I was left behind in my regular class. Week after week, I was laughed at. Week after week, I began to believe what they said. My grades plummeted. I remember wishing I wore glasses or braces, so they could make fun of something I could change. Unfortunately, me being a "slow" kid caught on.
By the end of the year, I came to forget what it was like being his friend. I could only assume he hated me, and my heart was broken for the very first time. I began to dread running into him. I hardly went into the woods all summer, but my heart broke further when I discovered one random Wednesday, that someone had set fire to the treehouse. My brother had already left for the Marines, so I deemed the whole mess unsalvageable, and never touched it again. To say I was devastated would be quite an understatement. That was also the summer I lost one of my first friends to a freak accident. Needless to say, I learned a lot about loss between elementary and middle school. Probably much more than my family felt comfortable acknowledging. Looking back, it was one of the more important years I've had, in terms of life lessons. I took comfort in the idea of a new start in a new school, and maybe making new friends, but on the first day of sixth grade, in my first day of science class, within the first few seconds of arrival, I noticed him. My old friend, my huge crush, too cool for me now. I saw him and didn't say hello. After a few minutes, he yelled across the room to me.

"Hey, Lea! You see the treehouse? You like what we did to the place?"

It felt as if I had been knocked flat on my back. All air left me, all color drained. I started to feel hot, and the room began spinning. I asked to go to the bathroom. With shaking legs, I made my way out of the room and down the hallway. There, in a stall, I cried for half of the class. I cried so hard I made myself ill. In between heaves and sobs, and the occasional vomiting, I struggled to make any sense of my feelings. I had never been so upset, and I had never felt so betrayed. Every breath I managed to take would echo against the cold walls of a colorless middle school bathroom, and my own heartbeat sounded like someone banging pots next to my ears. It went on that way for so long. This is a memory that stuck with me for years, and it sticks with me now. How could he do this? How could anyone do this?

High school came, and David became more involved with sports, more involved with his friends. We had gone a few years with zero interaction, but he suddenly started being nice to me. He would try to talk to me in the mornings in the cafeteria, and I would only cautiously respond. If he complimented my hair, I never wore it that way again. One morning, he told me I looked beautiful. I sneaked out and went home to change my clothes. I was convinced that everything he said had some double meaning, and his football friends were mean enough to me. I wasn't willing to be the butt of any more of his jokes. I eventually left that school to attend an alternate one, though not because of David. Not seeing him again was just a bonus.
I carried legitimate anger around for this kid until a just a couple years ago. It was a Friday night, and I was alone in my apartment. For whatever reason, I found myself very, VERY drunk, and very, VERY upset about my brother's passing. I thought of the treehouse. I thought of David. Fueled by bourbon and the ghosts of both my innocence and my dignity, I found him on Facebook. I wanted to send him a message, and finally had the nerve to ask him the questions I never thought I'd have the courage to ask. So I did. Why would he have ever done such a thing? Why had he hated me so much? What had I ever done but be his friend? Why any of it? His response blew me away. He started off by telling me how great it was to hear from me. He then said he wasn't actually the one who burned the tree down. He had no clue who it was. He said he didn't even remember telling me that he did, but he assumed it had to have been to get a rise out of me. And he was sorry. He had no idea how I felt about his actions back then, hardly remembered picking on me at all. He hoped I was doing well. He said we should catch up sometime. We never have. The end, basically.

And if you think this story fizzled and had nothing left at the end, you would be correct. That's how it felt as it happened. All said and done, I felt ridiculous. It has no real moral, other than to remind myself to have the courage to speak up when I need to speak up, and let go of things that need letting go. It would have saved me years of hurt. I don't know where that man is now, but I'm sure he's doing fine, and not at all concerned about the broken heart of a little girl from nearly twenty years ago. I'm sure we still have common friends, and I wish him nothing but health and happiness.
Anyway, you never can know the impact you have on others, and I can really only hope that nobody has a similar tale involving me. If anyone does, well..man, am I sorry.

xoxo

How Do You Like Your Eggs?

For just over a decade, I lied about how I liked my eggs cooked. I don't mean that my tastes changed, or I grew to like them a certain way later, leading me to say "my life has been a lie!" No. I lied. Flat out.
It started innocently enough, really. I was about fourteen or fifteen, staying at a friend's house overnight. She offered to cook breakfast in the morning, and asked the reasonable question you'd ask anybody you were frying an egg for.
"How do you like your eggs?" 
"Over easy, please."

Now I don't claim to know where my friend received her training, but these things were barely cooked. The whites not yet firm through, with the gelatinous ooze clinging to the fork. I noticed. She noticed. She offered to make me another, but I protested. "No, no. They're PERFECT." Anyone else would have found a way to laugh it off. Anyone else would have politely declined, put it back in the pan to scramble, made a bowl of cereal, maybe even pretended not to be hungry. Something, anything, to avoid eating undercooked food. But not me. Oh, no. At that age, my need to be polite, and make my friend feel proud of herself overwhelmed the need to save myself food poisoning. I ate them. I got sick. It was probably more from the stress, and less from food poisoning. After all, I've eaten my weight in raw cookie dough without so much as a stomach ache. But for my fourteen year old, crumbling self esteem, insulting my friend's cooking would have been enough to send me spiraling into anxiety for days. No thanks. At the time, I didn't think that meal would affect me for any longer than it would take to sleep off my nausea, but about two weeks later, the boy I was seeing offered to make us eggs. Why? Because, as I would learn, most dudes will eventually offer to make them, if only to be cute. I panicked. Images of the underdone, self-hate inducing breakfast from weeks before began to crowd me. The thought of saying something simple like "no thank you" never even occurred to me, though my mind was racing. Memories of every time I'd ever felt self conscious came flooding back, and my face felt hot. I didn't know what to do. Someone offering to cook for you should not induce anxiety. It should induce gratitude, or hunger, but definitely not palpitations or sweating. What if he can't cook? What if he's easily embarrassed like I am? What if I hate his eggs and he dumps me? My fears overwhelmed me. It was too much. I couldn't, wouldn't risk it.
"How do you like your eggs?"
"Over hard, please."
And so it began.

At first, it wasn't so bad. I could have my food however I liked at home, anyway. What I didn't realize was that, eventually, this would spill over into public food orders. And, as a teen in a relatively affluent suburb of Atlanta, I would spend an increasingly questionable amount of time at the local Waffle House. This was due in part to the fact that my hometown doesn't have much else for teenagers to do but loiter, and partly because most of my friends were drunk. Regardless, I ate a lot of eggs. I missed over easy, but I had been dating that same guy from before, and I had already been in too deep for way too long. My betrayal only grew with each scramble. I never came clean.

New relationships found me, and you'd think I could have broken free as soon as that first one ended, but I couldn't. These new people already knew me. They were my friends before they were dates. Plus, what kind of weirdo just lies about something so small? How would they trust me with anything else, if I've been lying to my friends and boyfriends for years about something so unimportant? How would calling attention to it make it any better? I felt trapped, but at least I could have what I wanted when I was alone. Trouble was, with choking them down in public so often, I never ever fried an egg at home.
And there was soon to be more trouble, when I became old enough to live with people I wasn't related to.
My hell had gotten worse. Obviously, when I moved in with my loving man (at the time), there was no more "I can have that at home," because he'd see me. We had the same home. He'd be there. To top it off,  he knew I hated runny yolks, because I had become so entrenched in my own lies that at some point I volunteered that false information. I would even come out and say that his food looked gross when we went for breakfast somewhere. "Ugh, I hate yolk! So gross!" It was unjust. I didn't hate it, I missed it. I missed brunch. I wanted warm, fluid yolk and dipping toast, and hollandaise, and to be myself, and not worry so much, and to stop internalizing everything I've ever felt, and not let something so unbelievably insignificant eat away at me. I wanted all of that, just not as much as I wanted him to find me sane. Appearing sane was my specialty, and had been for a long time. I could only blame myself. Nobody can truly be that neurotic, can they?

During periods of being single, this particular dysfunction hardly ever occurred to me, which was nice, but unfortunately, as soon as I started another relationship, I'd begin the deception over again. It was truly compulsive. All because of what? My weird anxiety from when I was a kid? While it's true that I've struggled with self worth, and an overwhelming fear that I am actually lousy with faulty upstairs wiring, even this seemed excessive. Surely, my self doubt and my desire to be loved can't be measured this way. Intellectually, I understood this problem was only a problem in my very own head, and that I had allowed it to continue to grow into its own tiny monster. Eventually, I found myself fed up. I am in control here, I reasoned. I had every right and every responsibility to stop the madness. I had to find the ability and the courage to laugh along, because this was going to be impossible to explain to anyone, and it was only going to be more impossible if I was going to try keeping a straight face while explaining it. I had to clear away the clutter in my head. I had to take charge.

So I stopped.Just not for the reasons you might be thinking

I mean, it wasn't because it was the right thing to do. Not because I suddenly developed the self love necessary not to stress over tiny issues. Not because this is seriously, honest to God, one of the dumbest non-problems any has ever faced. Not because I realized I was worried about a habit that absolutely nobody but me would even notice if I changed. I didn't stop because of some wonderful support system that encouraged me to be completely honest, regardless of consequences. I didn't stop because I came to the conclusion that everyone, in their own way, has their own egg lie, and the world would be a better place if we were our authentic selves at all cost.
No. I stopped because brunch became wildly popular in my age group, and nothing was going to stop me from ordering eggs benedict ever again. It's delicious, and highly underrated.

Anyway, the moral is not to date your friends. They might already know how you like your eggs.
I TAKE MINE OVER EASY, SOFT BOILED, OR POACHED, BY THE WAY.

xoxo

A Date with Murphy's Law

When I met Ricky, it was at a coffee shop in the middle of a bright and bustling little town. We were reading books by the same author, and happened to lock eyes from across the patio. He came to sit with me, and we hit it off. It was exhilarating. Having just gotten out of a horrible relationship which was still in that back and forth stage, I hadn't given much thought to any man but my ex/not ex/ex/not ex/ex. I still had another two weeks before I could even move out of his house, so I definitely wasn't searching for a date, but on that patio, I was charmed. He was smart, good looking, and he had me cracking up. Before he left, he asked if he could take me out that weekend, and I was beside myself. The man had a way of asking questions that truly excited me, and it had been so long since I felt that sort of connection. The entire scene played out like something from a cheesy romantic comedy.

For the next few days, I kept him a secret, even when several of my girlfriends started asking if I'd met someone. Apparently, lighting up and smiling while texting somebody wasn't normal behavior for me. So I fibbed a little, and said it was just a guy from back home in Atlanta. Partly because I didn't want to jinx anything, and partly because I didn't want the headache of word spreading around in such a small town. Ricky felt like the personification of fate. A prince charming sent to me in order to save me from myself, and the pattern of sabotage I'd been engaging in for the previous couple years. To say I was elated would be an understatement, and not because I wanted to rush into some relationship. Far from it, actually. I was just so ready to get out there and start my life again, so ready to escape my awful ex boyfriend, and going out on an actual date with a person I was genuinely interested in seemed to be a wonderful start. However, as I have witnessed time and time again, I am not allowed to have nice things for long. I did begin to worry about what might ruin it, or what might happen if the people I lived with found out, but was able to set my fear aside and remain super stoked. When Saturday finally came, I was up early. The whole day was spent making sure I was relaxed and ready for the big night. I went to get my hair done, had a mani-pedi, my legs waxed (don't judge me, shaving is the worst), even bought new shoes. I was singing, feeling good, and I was ready to be as charming as humanly possible.

We were supposed to meet at 7pm for a drink, and then go out for dinner. It was 6:45 when I stepped out of my car, setting off some cosmic chain of events that would ensure the evening would be anything but smooth. It all started in--no--WITH a flash. I had parked on the street, about a block away from the cocktail spot. While walking to the meter, the wind caught the front of my adorable sundress, ripping it away from me, nearly up to my face. A homeless man a few yards away saw everything. It was embarrassing, sure, but it didn't shake me too much. I laughed and apologized. Then I went to actually pay the meter, which isn't the coin receptacle type in front of your individual parking spot. These meters downtown are set up differently, and on any given block, there are two to four places to pay for any and all parking spaces. You insert payment, receive your stub, and display that in your car. Not complicated in the least, but sometimes a pain when you're in a rush, having to walk back and forth from car to meter, to car, back past meter to wherever you're going, etc. Anyway, I stumbled a bit, tipping my purse and its entire contents all over the sidewalk, in front of the same human who just saw my underwear in broad daylight. I ended up crouched down, holding my dress, trying to recover my possessions, trying not to flash everyone ever, with a nice (but homeless) person helping to pick up all of my dropped belongings. Have you ever had someone holding your wallet, and looking inside of it while asking if you have any money on you? It was a first for me. It's hard enough for me to say no, or to limit what I give out to people who ask, and usually those people have no idea what the inside of my purse looks like. Imagine it. So much pressure. Eventually, everything important was gathered. I paid the meter, thanked the man, handed over my entire change purse, and went to put the ticket on my dash. There, I thought, you got all of your awkward out before you even went on the date. Good job. I had to again pass the meter, as well as the man, on my way to the bar.

"Can I get a dollar?"
"Seriously? I just gave you all my change. It's all parking quarters. That's like eight bucks, dude."
"You got paper, though."

I gave him a few paper dollars. I have no resolve.

I kept walking, certain the worst was behind me, but when I turned a corner, the heel of my brand new shoe got stuck in a grate. Shit. I tried to pull my foot free, to no avail. Shit, shit, shit. Taking my foot out of the shoe, I once again had to lower myself near the ground in my inappropriately flowing, short dress; this time, half barefoot. In what I can only describe as "of course it was" this thing was unbelievably stuck. In fact, it was taking so long to remove from its steel cage that several kind people stopped to try and help me. It was not a shining moment, and just as I was putting my newly scuffed shoe back on, I saw Ricky crossing the intersection. Yes, he had seen me yanking my footwear from the sewer. Yes, he did find it hilarious. However, when he hugged me hello and told me I looked cute, I felt much better. This is going to be a great evening, I thought. And for the shortest amount of time, it was. Up until we sat down for our drinks.

For reasons I didn't immediately understand, Ricky began to act supremely uneasy. He was fumbling over his words, he was pronouncing my name all wrong (I would correct him four or five times over the next few hours), and even seemed to be sweating. He was trying his best to hold a conversation, but kept apologizing for being so nervous. Usually, I'm pretty good for putting people at ease, so I did my best to help. I pretended not to notice how uncomfortable he was acting, and just continued on, cracking a few jokes, hoping that would pull him out of it. We finished our pre-dinner cocktails, and strolled over to the restaurant he'd chosen. On the way there, we were arm in arm, and he began to calm down. As somebody who struggles with panic disorder, seeing someone so anxious really tugs at me. He apologized again, and I admitted to him about my panic attacks. This seemed to help, and the walk was lovely.
Unfortunately, once we were seated at a table, we were faced with brand new challenges. He began to fidget with the silverware, dropping it on the floor. He needed two replacements by the time the appetizer came, and another two throughout the meal, because as soon as he would start getting comfortable enough to discuss anything, he'd gesticulate wildly, and something would go flying as a result. We were sharing our food, so sauce from the mussels we'd ordered would occasionally get splattered onto my arm, and he'd freak out apologizing. Then there was the issue of the tablecloth which needed swift adjusting. The motion knocked my full wine glass into my lap, soaking most of my body. He was horrified.
"Oh! Oh my God! I am so sorry. I have no idea what's even happening! I'm never like this!"

I kept telling him it was all right, and letting these accidents roll off even though I was starting to die a little inside. Throughout dinner, the energy would fluctuate without any notice whatsoever, making it hard for either one of us to really enjoy ourselves. It was impossible to navigate. No matter what we tried, one of us would end up saying or doing something to kill the discussion. The conversation was so strained, it was hardly a conversation at all. If this happened with somebody else, we both would have been rolling laughing at ourselves, and it might have gone really well for going so badly. I can recall one such date from high school, and that guy would end up being a great friend to me for the next twelve years. But not Ricky. While I found the entire thing funny, he was stone faced. I wanted him to joke with me, instead of assuming I was laughing at him, but it just wasn't working. By the time the waiter asked us if we wanted dessert, we looked at each other and sighed.
 
"At this point, it might make us feel better..." he suggested. We decided to split a piece of chocolate cake.

As we mourned aloud the date we were still on, we were finally connecting. For a few minutes, everything was flowing as it had when we met, and we were able to find humor in the time we were having. Wow, are we really about to turn this thing around? Is this going to be the greatest comeback of all time? But just as I began to feel hope, I also felt a familiar tickle in my throat. An itching. My stomach dropped; I began to silently panic. I realized Ricky was staring at me as if I had three heads.

"Are you okay? Your neck--Your chest! You're turning really red. Are you allergic to shell fish?"
"No? I don't know? It'd be new. This is so weird, I'm really only allergic to coffee..."

We both stared down at the empty plate between us, simultaneously drawing the same conclusion. It was a Wonder Twins moment for sure. He frantically flagged down the waiter, and asked about the cake. Turns out, there was an unadvertised layer of mocha creme, as well as a fair amount of coffee in the batter. And just for the record, for something mocha, that coffee flavor was imperceptible. My date even backed me up. No big deal, I told myself, you keep Benadryl in your purse. I explained how this sometimes happens, and how I always keep medicine on me, but as I rooted around in my bag, it was nowhere to be found. The purse dumping fiasco replayed in my head, and it occurred to me I was out of luck.
I ran the three blocks in new (scuffed) heels to the drugstore, where there was naturally a shortage of stock, and the only medicine left was the children's liquid. Bubblegum flavor, I think. I chugged a good portion of the bottle before suddenly remembering I had to go back and meet Ricky. The urgency of my situation had clouded my judgement, and I had blindly agreed to this as I was getting up from the table. He said he was going to pay, and then make his way to the store to make sure I was all right. I began to head his direction, but never ran into him along the way. Weird, maybe he left. I carried on, making it all the way back to find him still sitting at our table, with a worried look on his face.
When I walked in, the waiter broke the news that my date's card had been declined. All of his cards had been declined, and he rattled off a few possible reasons why. I didn't mind picking up the tab, though. It was just one more mishap, given how hard he had insisted on paying in the first place.

I believed we were finally done. We were walking out, about to go our separate ways, when just outside the restaurant, this tree-tall man took a sudden and terrifying tumble, failing to catch himself with anything but his face. I may have even yelped a bit, seeing him dive into the sidewalk like that. He jumped up to his feet quickly, with wide eyes and twenty "I'm fine's" to my twenty "are you sure's." It was clear he wanted to pretend it hadn't happened, despite starting to bleed. We briefly discussed who was parked where, along with which routes to take, since we'd roamed a few blocks from our original meeting point. As it turns out, I'd have to walk right by his car on the way to mine, so he asked to walk with me. It wasn't as pleasant as our previous stroll, as we tried to wrap our heads around everything that had occurred, and with me trying to beat the clock on my way to a diphenhydramine coma. We were nearly silent, afraid to open our mouths and say another stupid thing. He broke the quiet briefly.

"I met you in a coffee shop."
"Yes."
He frowned. "Unbelievable"
"Sorry?"
"I met you, and you were in a coffee shop. How would I know you were allergic to coffee?"
"You wouldn't."
"But why would you be there? You could die."
I shrugged. "I drink tea. Coffee shops usually have tea."
"Oh. Well, yeah..."

We were both staring far ahead. We were giving up. At least it's over now. I'll get some good sleep. And so, we just walked. Him, covered in sweat from conversational exhaustion, as well as his own blood from his battle with the concrete, and me completely covered in pinot noir from the tablecloth debacle. Also, did I mention that my dress was light grey? Because it was a very light grey, nearly white, and I never was able to salvage it. I had been drenched in dark red splotches. I'm sure we appeared insane together, and it definitely didn't help matters when Ricky suddenly started to yell, sprinting off to his car. Of course, I didn't know it was his car, or what he was yelling about. All I knew was that a bleeding, upset, sweaty man was running away from me while screaming, and from a distance I probably appeared to be covered in blood. Seemed like a true disaster. After the evening we'd had, it seemed about right.

"No. Fuck. No, no, no! HOLY SHIT NO! COME ON!"
"What's wrong?" I tried to tag along at first, but let him go on ahead, to whatever he was running toward.
He didn't answer me. He just kept screaming until he had to sit down on the sidewalk for a break. Putting his head in his hands, sighing loudly, he looked to be a nearly broken man. This night had already taken much out of him, and now his car had been booted. I offered to call him a cab, but then remembered the issue of payment. I certainly didn't have time to wait with him and pay. This was before Uber. I would have to take a cab myself if I tried. Benadryl and I don't get along.
"Come on," I said. "Let me drive you home." We trudged along, eventually getting in my car. Turn by turn, he fed me directions while apologizing profusely.

When we finally arrived at his house, I was running out of time. We hadn't talked much on the way. Although he had made a lot of, well, interesting statements during our evening together, none were more awkward than when we were sitting in his driveway. He grabbed my hand out of nowhere. He looked directly at me. His face was still bleeding a bit, and almost-tears had begun to form in the corners of his eyes. "I'm sorry everything was so terrible. I was so excited to get to know you." I nodded, but his energy began to feel severe, and I was getting uncomfortable. He went on. "So.. what I'm trying to say....what I really want to know is...well...We aren't going to work out, right?" I just sort of stared, because I wasn't sure where he was going with it, but I was still listening. I gave him another nod. "Right," he said, "we aren't going to work out. We had a terrible time, and I spilled wine on you, and I fucked up everything, and you had to pay and drive me...and I don't think I want to go out with you again. I mean, I don't want to go through this again. Do you want to come inside, though? Do you want to have a drink and stay over with me? I mean, you're already here. We can't make things much worse and if we're not going to see each other again..."

For a few seconds, all I could do was blink rapidly. What I wanted to say was "Oh, no thank you. I really need to get going." but what actually left my mouth was thirty seconds of a downright Julia Roberts-esque "BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA" followed by a breathless "No! Absolutely not! Please get out so I can leave!"

"It was worth a shot" he smiled.
"Was it?" I crinkled my face.
We half hugged, and I left.

Every time I think of that night, I try to derive some sort of meaning from it. I'm forever searching for a moral in all strange happenings, but honestly, I'm just glad I made it home before the drugs really kicked in. That could have been a DUI! Worse, that could have been an accident, and given everything else that happened in the hours before, I am shocked that it wasn't. I kick myself about it occasionally. I knew and know better, and I'm lucky to have awakened the next day, unscathed. So, I guess if I had to create a moral, or if I had to sum up some advice in a nice little bow, it might go something like this:

If you're allergic to coffee, make sure to ask for an ingredients list before consuming any chocolate cake while on a date, because if you don't, you could possibly end up having to drink a bottle of diphenhydramine while your date's car is being booted, leading you to unnecessarily risk your life and the lives of other people on the road, just to drive him home, where you'll end up turning down what one could only reasonably assume, given the theme of the evening, would be terrible sex. Also, don't do that driving thing if/when this happens to you. Just call a cab.

xoxo