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
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
The Bridge Troll
Sometime in the early fall of 2016, I had my heart broken. We can get into how that went down a different day, but as a result of my ego shattering, I turned to online dating. It wasn't an unusual move to make, as I've met plenty of perfectly regular men on the internet. I tend to take my time before meeting them, making sure wherever we go is public and well lit, and I always let somebody know where and when I'm going. I can't pretend that all of those dates go well, because some of them don't. Actually, since we're all friends now, most of them don't.
So maybe it was how utterly sad I had been feeling, but when I started to message back and forth with a reasonably attractive, conversational Jake, I might have been a bit too excited to meet him. He seemed a little too agreeable, which might have been a warning (which I didn't take). He lived about an hour away, which might have been enough to deter me (but it wasn't). He even used phrases like "nice guy" and "women always date douchebags," which are always red flags (but I ignored them). Jake was a busy man, but he seemed to want to make time for me, and I certainly appreciated it. We had similar taste in music, movies, and art in general. We had only been texting back and forth for about a day, when I received a phone call. The words flowed freely, topics changed in an instant, and I found myself having a fun, interesting, meandering chat with someone I was growing more interested in meeting. We set the date before getting off the phone, and agreed to see each other two days later.
He had offered to drive all the way to my town, which was nice. During our talk, I described the bar I frequent. It's just a small town pool hall, smoky and dark, with a staff and regulars who all know my name, and most of them even know what I drink. From here on, we'll just call it Cheers. I'd been frequenting Cheers for quite some time, and hardly ever invited anyone to join me, unless they were also a regular. It's my favorite bar, so I would go there to unwind, do some people watching, and ultimately chill out. It's my little secret, away from all the folks I grew up with, and away from people I don't need to run into. Even though I am friendly, I am still quite introverted, and Cheers provides an oasis of bourbon and comfort. A safe space for me and myself only, if you will. Despite all of this, and the alarms going off in my head, when Jake said "Hey, how about we go to that Cheers place you like so much?" my answer was "Sure!" which I heard myself say, but I really didn't mean it. I had no idea how to take it back. I should have taken it back.
Always trust your gut, kids.
I arrived at Cheers at 8:30, but my companion was nowhere to be found. In fact, I hadn't heard from him all day. My friend was tending bar, so I decided to get a drink and let her know what was going on. We were both excited for him to show, but forty minutes later, we were sure this guy was standing me up. I began to relax, deciding to enjoy my evening instead of wasting any time lamenting a first date. My friend and I went over the details for a bit first, of course. She asked all the questions a girl asks, and I left nothing out. There wasn't much to leave out, anyway. Jake was 5'10, in good shape, with great hair, and a sense of humor. He was 27, he liked the things I liked, and unfortunately he decided to stand-- "Lea?"
I turned to my right, and didn't recognize the man greeting me. I answered cautiously with "Yes?"
"I'm Jake."
"No, you're not."
"It's so nice to meet you! Sorry I'm late. Wow, you look amazing."
I looked back at my friend, who was stunned. Floored. Completely in shock. I felt the same way, but wasn't sure how to work it out. I was confused, to say the least. See, I'm not particularly shallow, but I do find lying incredibly unattractive. The likelihood of this disheveled hobbit's personality saving him was slim. He had lied. And he was an hour late, with no notice. And I did look amazing. Basically, within five seconds, my brain went "fuck this," but the catfish was brazen, if not oblivious. He didn't even bat an eye at any of my cold behavior. While he could tell I was disappointed, he seemed not to know why. I asked if the pictures he sent were even his.
"Oh...yeah, about that...those are, uh..pretty old." So I asked how old they were.
"From when I was about 27."
"You said you were 27..How old are you?"
"Did I? Weird. Sorry. I'm 36."
Weird? No, let's get this straight. This was not weird. This was way beyond weird. Dude said he was 27 years old, 5'10, that he was going to meet me at 8:30, and as far as I could tell, all of that was a lie. That's a whole lot of incorrect numbers. Oh, and remember that great hair I mentioned? Even that wasn't real. He was balding excessively. Again, not something that would have bothered me if I hadn't been lied to. What I still fail to understand is why, oh, why would anyone lie about such obvious attributes? I'm 5'3! Did he really think I wouldn't notice we were the same height? Did he really think anyone was dumb enough to believe he was in his late twenties? He looked to be much older than 36, by the way. Also, just to make sure we're all on the same page, "twenty seven" and "thirty six" don't sound even remotely similar, and he answered me as if I had simply misheard him. I have questions to this day. This was not the first time I'd been misled by an online profile, nor would it be the last, but it was definitely the most extreme. I'm still pretty sure those pictures were of someone else entirely, but I didn't press the issue.
I struggled through some conversation a while, but was very clearly no longer interested. I made little eye contact, and hardly engaged at all. I was over it. When he asked if we should get another round, I declined. We paid our tabs, and he walked me out. We said goodbye somewhat near my car, and it was rough. He went in for a hug, so I had to turn my body to give one of those one armed side hugs. You know, one that says "you might as well be a distant relative I was forced to interact with this Thanksgiving." I was sure I had sufficiently displayed my lack of attraction, but then he went to kiss me, despite every single signal I could have sent otherwise, forcing me to violently recoil. Someone across the parking lot might have thought I was cowering. He apologized, I forgave him. It was awkward. He went to get in his car, and once he drove away, I went right back into the bar to laugh about how poorly everything went. I figured that was the end of it, but, as happens so often, I was wrong.
Over the next few days, I received a series of lengthy texts and emails telling me how wonderful I am, and how much chemistry was felt. I'm not bragging, either. Truthfully, I'm not that interesting, so this says more about him than it does me. My mind was blown. In hindsight, I should have answered, if only to say "I appreciate that, but I am not interested." Eventually, there was silence, and I believed he had taken the hint. That is, until the next Monday.
Monday night football at Cheers was a routine for me. My day at the office had been hell, so I was talking with one of my girlfriends about it, and starting to relax. She and I began discussing men, and how horrible dating is. She made a joke about how if she ever got divorced, she would just marry me. It was then that we heard a voice at the end of the bar, loudly spouting "You can't. I called dibs."
Yes, this guy who lived over an hour away had come back to my favorite bar, when he knew I'd be there. Stupidly, I had mentioned my Monday night ritual. I was not only put off, but pissed off. Clearly, he had come to the conclusion that he just wasn't being creepy enough, and if he stalked me instead, I might fall in love. Maybe. That's all I can come up with, really. And it made me furious! I was going to give him a piece of my mind, and let him know just how wildly inappropriate his actions were. He needed to know that this was NOT okay. Of course, since I'm not exactly well equipped for confrontation, and my self esteem is all but crumbling, what I chose to immediately say was a small and shaky "Heyyyyy....pal." This displeased him. He came to sit next to me, and after giving me an arm punch with a "Hah. Hey, buddy." he proceeded to berate me for nearly twenty minutes.
According to this indignant jerk, I led him on, and I am heartless. I am unfeeling, cold, and immature. He was so, so interested in me, and I would regret passing him up, because he is a really nice guy. I'm never going to find anyone since all I care about is looks, and I really owe him and mankind an apology for my behavior. Yes, those are the words he used.
Eventually, I snapped. Through anger alone, I was able to defend myself against such outrageous claims. Quietly, but intensely, I let him have it."Fine. I do not like you. In fact, I met someone else. I am already seeing someone." Sure, it was a lie, but he lies, so...you know..I didn't care. I continued, letting him know that I was not interested, I was pissed off that he came to my stomping grounds, and the fact that he thought any of this was appropriate disgusted me. "You're acting as if we had a relationship, or a friendship that needs respecting! I don't even know you!" I told him I would appreciate it if he left. As I talked, he shrank. He looked choked up, but was still angry.
"Oh, what? You think you can kick me out of here? You don't have the authority to kick me out of a bar you don't own."
"Actually, I do.." I replied. My friend behind the bar chimed in, "She absolutely does."
In that moment, I had to decide how to proceed. Even though our exchange of words was quiet, everyone could tell I was livid, and I was growing more embarrassed by the second. Instead of kicking him out, I decided to remove myself. In my mind, it was worse than making him leave. Here I am, I thought, minding my own business, in my element, and even though you disrupted me to be wildly rude, I will be the one to leave. I'm being the bigger person here, in front of everyone. Feel bad about it. Get stuck here, embarrassing yourself in front of my friends. He was ruining the football game, and my day had already been trying, so I went home.
Jake didn't leave the bar at all. Instead, he stayed until closing time, and with last call being just before 3am, that means he was there for a good, long while. He sent me a storm of texts, ranging from "I hate you, you fucking whore" all the way to "I'm so sorry. Please give me a chance. I want you to like me." I answered none of them, even when they continued into the next day. Turns out, he spent all those hours crying to anyone who would listen about how I broke his heart. Since those folks knew me, they were just as confused as Jake was loud. I've since heard that at several points, he was literally sobbing at the end of the bar. All this over a stranger? I cannot imagine developing that level of attachment that quickly. For the next few weeks, I had to answer a million questions about a man who, all told, I only knew for a few hours. I was mortified at first, but got over it quickly. The people who were there that night still bring it up occasionally, and we all share a laugh about the time I was catfished, then publicly stalked and humiliated by a middle aged bridge troll who doesn't pick up on social cues.
Anyway, I never had a first date at Cheers again.
xoxo
So maybe it was how utterly sad I had been feeling, but when I started to message back and forth with a reasonably attractive, conversational Jake, I might have been a bit too excited to meet him. He seemed a little too agreeable, which might have been a warning (which I didn't take). He lived about an hour away, which might have been enough to deter me (but it wasn't). He even used phrases like "nice guy" and "women always date douchebags," which are always red flags (but I ignored them). Jake was a busy man, but he seemed to want to make time for me, and I certainly appreciated it. We had similar taste in music, movies, and art in general. We had only been texting back and forth for about a day, when I received a phone call. The words flowed freely, topics changed in an instant, and I found myself having a fun, interesting, meandering chat with someone I was growing more interested in meeting. We set the date before getting off the phone, and agreed to see each other two days later.
He had offered to drive all the way to my town, which was nice. During our talk, I described the bar I frequent. It's just a small town pool hall, smoky and dark, with a staff and regulars who all know my name, and most of them even know what I drink. From here on, we'll just call it Cheers. I'd been frequenting Cheers for quite some time, and hardly ever invited anyone to join me, unless they were also a regular. It's my favorite bar, so I would go there to unwind, do some people watching, and ultimately chill out. It's my little secret, away from all the folks I grew up with, and away from people I don't need to run into. Even though I am friendly, I am still quite introverted, and Cheers provides an oasis of bourbon and comfort. A safe space for me and myself only, if you will. Despite all of this, and the alarms going off in my head, when Jake said "Hey, how about we go to that Cheers place you like so much?" my answer was "Sure!" which I heard myself say, but I really didn't mean it. I had no idea how to take it back. I should have taken it back.
Always trust your gut, kids.
I arrived at Cheers at 8:30, but my companion was nowhere to be found. In fact, I hadn't heard from him all day. My friend was tending bar, so I decided to get a drink and let her know what was going on. We were both excited for him to show, but forty minutes later, we were sure this guy was standing me up. I began to relax, deciding to enjoy my evening instead of wasting any time lamenting a first date. My friend and I went over the details for a bit first, of course. She asked all the questions a girl asks, and I left nothing out. There wasn't much to leave out, anyway. Jake was 5'10, in good shape, with great hair, and a sense of humor. He was 27, he liked the things I liked, and unfortunately he decided to stand-- "Lea?"
I turned to my right, and didn't recognize the man greeting me. I answered cautiously with "Yes?"
"I'm Jake."
"No, you're not."
"It's so nice to meet you! Sorry I'm late. Wow, you look amazing."
I looked back at my friend, who was stunned. Floored. Completely in shock. I felt the same way, but wasn't sure how to work it out. I was confused, to say the least. See, I'm not particularly shallow, but I do find lying incredibly unattractive. The likelihood of this disheveled hobbit's personality saving him was slim. He had lied. And he was an hour late, with no notice. And I did look amazing. Basically, within five seconds, my brain went "fuck this," but the catfish was brazen, if not oblivious. He didn't even bat an eye at any of my cold behavior. While he could tell I was disappointed, he seemed not to know why. I asked if the pictures he sent were even his.
"Oh...yeah, about that...those are, uh..pretty old." So I asked how old they were.
"From when I was about 27."
"You said you were 27..How old are you?"
"Did I? Weird. Sorry. I'm 36."
Weird? No, let's get this straight. This was not weird. This was way beyond weird. Dude said he was 27 years old, 5'10, that he was going to meet me at 8:30, and as far as I could tell, all of that was a lie. That's a whole lot of incorrect numbers. Oh, and remember that great hair I mentioned? Even that wasn't real. He was balding excessively. Again, not something that would have bothered me if I hadn't been lied to. What I still fail to understand is why, oh, why would anyone lie about such obvious attributes? I'm 5'3! Did he really think I wouldn't notice we were the same height? Did he really think anyone was dumb enough to believe he was in his late twenties? He looked to be much older than 36, by the way. Also, just to make sure we're all on the same page, "twenty seven" and "thirty six" don't sound even remotely similar, and he answered me as if I had simply misheard him. I have questions to this day. This was not the first time I'd been misled by an online profile, nor would it be the last, but it was definitely the most extreme. I'm still pretty sure those pictures were of someone else entirely, but I didn't press the issue.
I struggled through some conversation a while, but was very clearly no longer interested. I made little eye contact, and hardly engaged at all. I was over it. When he asked if we should get another round, I declined. We paid our tabs, and he walked me out. We said goodbye somewhat near my car, and it was rough. He went in for a hug, so I had to turn my body to give one of those one armed side hugs. You know, one that says "you might as well be a distant relative I was forced to interact with this Thanksgiving." I was sure I had sufficiently displayed my lack of attraction, but then he went to kiss me, despite every single signal I could have sent otherwise, forcing me to violently recoil. Someone across the parking lot might have thought I was cowering. He apologized, I forgave him. It was awkward. He went to get in his car, and once he drove away, I went right back into the bar to laugh about how poorly everything went. I figured that was the end of it, but, as happens so often, I was wrong.
Over the next few days, I received a series of lengthy texts and emails telling me how wonderful I am, and how much chemistry was felt. I'm not bragging, either. Truthfully, I'm not that interesting, so this says more about him than it does me. My mind was blown. In hindsight, I should have answered, if only to say "I appreciate that, but I am not interested." Eventually, there was silence, and I believed he had taken the hint. That is, until the next Monday.
Monday night football at Cheers was a routine for me. My day at the office had been hell, so I was talking with one of my girlfriends about it, and starting to relax. She and I began discussing men, and how horrible dating is. She made a joke about how if she ever got divorced, she would just marry me. It was then that we heard a voice at the end of the bar, loudly spouting "You can't. I called dibs."
Yes, this guy who lived over an hour away had come back to my favorite bar, when he knew I'd be there. Stupidly, I had mentioned my Monday night ritual. I was not only put off, but pissed off. Clearly, he had come to the conclusion that he just wasn't being creepy enough, and if he stalked me instead, I might fall in love. Maybe. That's all I can come up with, really. And it made me furious! I was going to give him a piece of my mind, and let him know just how wildly inappropriate his actions were. He needed to know that this was NOT okay. Of course, since I'm not exactly well equipped for confrontation, and my self esteem is all but crumbling, what I chose to immediately say was a small and shaky "Heyyyyy....pal." This displeased him. He came to sit next to me, and after giving me an arm punch with a "Hah. Hey, buddy." he proceeded to berate me for nearly twenty minutes.
According to this indignant jerk, I led him on, and I am heartless. I am unfeeling, cold, and immature. He was so, so interested in me, and I would regret passing him up, because he is a really nice guy. I'm never going to find anyone since all I care about is looks, and I really owe him and mankind an apology for my behavior. Yes, those are the words he used.
Eventually, I snapped. Through anger alone, I was able to defend myself against such outrageous claims. Quietly, but intensely, I let him have it."Fine. I do not like you. In fact, I met someone else. I am already seeing someone." Sure, it was a lie, but he lies, so...you know..I didn't care. I continued, letting him know that I was not interested, I was pissed off that he came to my stomping grounds, and the fact that he thought any of this was appropriate disgusted me. "You're acting as if we had a relationship, or a friendship that needs respecting! I don't even know you!" I told him I would appreciate it if he left. As I talked, he shrank. He looked choked up, but was still angry.
"Oh, what? You think you can kick me out of here? You don't have the authority to kick me out of a bar you don't own."
"Actually, I do.." I replied. My friend behind the bar chimed in, "She absolutely does."
In that moment, I had to decide how to proceed. Even though our exchange of words was quiet, everyone could tell I was livid, and I was growing more embarrassed by the second. Instead of kicking him out, I decided to remove myself. In my mind, it was worse than making him leave. Here I am, I thought, minding my own business, in my element, and even though you disrupted me to be wildly rude, I will be the one to leave. I'm being the bigger person here, in front of everyone. Feel bad about it. Get stuck here, embarrassing yourself in front of my friends. He was ruining the football game, and my day had already been trying, so I went home.
Jake didn't leave the bar at all. Instead, he stayed until closing time, and with last call being just before 3am, that means he was there for a good, long while. He sent me a storm of texts, ranging from "I hate you, you fucking whore" all the way to "I'm so sorry. Please give me a chance. I want you to like me." I answered none of them, even when they continued into the next day. Turns out, he spent all those hours crying to anyone who would listen about how I broke his heart. Since those folks knew me, they were just as confused as Jake was loud. I've since heard that at several points, he was literally sobbing at the end of the bar. All this over a stranger? I cannot imagine developing that level of attachment that quickly. For the next few weeks, I had to answer a million questions about a man who, all told, I only knew for a few hours. I was mortified at first, but got over it quickly. The people who were there that night still bring it up occasionally, and we all share a laugh about the time I was catfished, then publicly stalked and humiliated by a middle aged bridge troll who doesn't pick up on social cues.
Anyway, I never had a first date at Cheers again.
xoxo
Be Kind, I'm New Here
HOLY CRAP, HELLO! This is so new! This is so exciting! This...is already not how I expected my first post to begin. Let's roll with it. Let's just see what happens, because I hadn't thought this part out at all.
So, what brings me here? Good question! I want to share my experiences. Some of them are embarrassing, some of them are painful, and some of them are downright ridiculous.
I figured that this, my very first post, should be the most uncomfortable. I intend to lay everything out in the open, and let you decide if you want to join me on this journey with no destination. Along the way, I'll be sure to cover a multitude of subjects, and hopefully there will be a little bit for everyone. This post is also quite different from the rest, because the rest are stories!
My life could be seen as a bit of a series of misadventures, followed by intense introspection. So, if you like hearing about terrible dates, or maybe how a person managed to humiliate themselves by ending up in their underwear, on a stage, in front of most of their high school, then you might like laughing with me. In fact, I find if you enjoy those things, it's because you relate. If you've ever been awkward, anxious, or just plain quirky, I feel you.
For now, I'm just going to word-vomit a way too personal introduction, and do my very best to send any potential readers and friends running for the hills. So, what are these demons I intend to face by sharing them with my own tiny sliver of internet? What could I possibly present that would possibly turn you off to hearing about my Tinder date horror stories? Who am I, exactly?
I'm a survivor of abuse, fighter of chronic illness, advocate for mental health, an aspiring motivational speaker/writer/storyteller. Currently, I'm flailing about my house as an agoraphobic, walking contradiction. Definitely a stranger hugger. Proponent of individuality, self-empowerment, and poorly timed jokes. I was born with, by fortune or fate, an overabundance of emotions. I'm single, pushing thirty, and bad at dating. In my spare time, I ferociously battle pernicious anemia, endometriosis, ulcerative interstitial cystitis, agoraphobia, hypothyroidism, bouts of encephalopathy, and even trichotillomania, by way of a great diet, loving doctors, incredible friends, and a sense of humor. In person, I resemble a mouse, but with better teeth, and smaller ears. My life has been one strange circumstance after another. I am a magnet for interesting characters, and I am constantly ending up in awkward situations.
What I mean to say is I've got a lot going on, and most of it hurts.
You might be wondering how anything I've said could translate into any story that isn't incredibly depressing, and I don't blame you. That's totally fair, I just ask that you trust me. And please, be kind. I'm new here.
xoxo,
Lea
So, what brings me here? Good question! I want to share my experiences. Some of them are embarrassing, some of them are painful, and some of them are downright ridiculous.
I figured that this, my very first post, should be the most uncomfortable. I intend to lay everything out in the open, and let you decide if you want to join me on this journey with no destination. Along the way, I'll be sure to cover a multitude of subjects, and hopefully there will be a little bit for everyone. This post is also quite different from the rest, because the rest are stories!
My life could be seen as a bit of a series of misadventures, followed by intense introspection. So, if you like hearing about terrible dates, or maybe how a person managed to humiliate themselves by ending up in their underwear, on a stage, in front of most of their high school, then you might like laughing with me. In fact, I find if you enjoy those things, it's because you relate. If you've ever been awkward, anxious, or just plain quirky, I feel you.
For now, I'm just going to word-vomit a way too personal introduction, and do my very best to send any potential readers and friends running for the hills. So, what are these demons I intend to face by sharing them with my own tiny sliver of internet? What could I possibly present that would possibly turn you off to hearing about my Tinder date horror stories? Who am I, exactly?
I'm a survivor of abuse, fighter of chronic illness, advocate for mental health, an aspiring motivational speaker/writer/storyteller. Currently, I'm flailing about my house as an agoraphobic, walking contradiction. Definitely a stranger hugger. Proponent of individuality, self-empowerment, and poorly timed jokes. I was born with, by fortune or fate, an overabundance of emotions. I'm single, pushing thirty, and bad at dating. In my spare time, I ferociously battle pernicious anemia, endometriosis, ulcerative interstitial cystitis, agoraphobia, hypothyroidism, bouts of encephalopathy, and even trichotillomania, by way of a great diet, loving doctors, incredible friends, and a sense of humor. In person, I resemble a mouse, but with better teeth, and smaller ears. My life has been one strange circumstance after another. I am a magnet for interesting characters, and I am constantly ending up in awkward situations.
What I mean to say is I've got a lot going on, and most of it hurts.
You might be wondering how anything I've said could translate into any story that isn't incredibly depressing, and I don't blame you. That's totally fair, I just ask that you trust me. And please, be kind. I'm new here.
xoxo,
Lea
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