My nearest and dearest delight in regaling anyone nearby
with stories of my shitty decision making expertise (I have this shit down to a
science). Nothing, evidentally, is
funnier than the string of developmentally delayed exes I ran through in high
school, or my tendency to say wildly inappropriate things at the most
unfortunate times (I once, straight faced, tried to convince a cop I had witnessed
a body being thrown in a dumpster. It
didn’t end well). The art of screwing
up royally has led me down some pretty interesting paths that typically all end
in the middle of the city of Awkward.
Population me and, normally, some poor unsuspecting bar douche that
bought me whiskey once.
Today I ventured down one of those paths. This path began with a bad decision I made a
few years ago and then continued making for about four years. I'll call this piñata of sleaze Chris (No, that’s
not his real name, I don’t need him suing me for using his name in vain or
defaming his character or what not. I’m
still an unpaid blogger (unfairly, I contend), and Genghis the furnace salesman
doesn’t pay me that well at this point).
Chris was, in fact, a douchey bar guy who did,
at multiple points in our sordid, on again/off again history together buy me whiskey. Alas, he had discovered my weakness, the intricate combination that unlocked my
heart: over confidence in one's own mediocrity and alcohol.
Chris and I met and fell madly in casual sex with each other. Bet you thought I was going to say love
there. But it wasn’t like that in the
beginning. We were both in committed
relationships with others, Chris had just gotten married and I was living with
someone (NO judging!). So it wasn’t
love, it was sex. People do stupid
things when they’re in love, but if you really want to get yourself into a
handicapable situation, get your genitals involved. So Chris and I had occasional casual sex for
four years.
And then we both suddenly found ourselves single. It was an odd situation. We’d never been single at the same time. I realized I didn’t like this whole single
thing and decided that I would do what any slightly neurotic, slutty when tipsy
woman with inadequate respect for monogamy would do: I fell for my emergency
penis. I approached Chris with the idea
of having a real big people relationship and was promptly told that I was not
to be seen in public with Chris. He had
a reputation to protect.
I was crushed. And
furious. And I felt a little bad for
Chris because I’m pretty sure the inability to recognize awesome of this
magnitude is an actual disease that requires some pretty expensive treatment.
I didn’t scream and yell, I didn’t throw things or glue his
penis to his stomach or boil his pet rabbit.
Instead I accepted the fact that Chris was an insufferable douche
incapable of truly appreciating the fact that he was lucky enough to catch my
eye. So I spent a couple days cursing
his name. I took my frustrations out on
my liver, which, let’s be honest, I was probably going to do anyway.
From there, I saw Chris only sporadically, usually at bars
where we’d awkwardly hug and say hi after we had had enough shots to make that seem
like a good idea. The last time I saw
him he apologized to me and I ugly cried, which I immediately hated myself
for. And I haven’t seen him since. Small towns being what they are I had heard
that he was engaged and had spawned and I was genuinely happy for him though
slightly afraid that Axe Body Spray would come out with a toddler line
soon.
So, back to the present day. Last night a few friends and I
decided to celebrate a birthday by drinking a serious amount of beer and eating
entirely too much. Waking up this
morning was a spectacular shit show that started with someone screaming that my
car was getting towed (it was actually getting a $25 parking ticket) and ended
with hearing myself blink. As I picked
myself up off the floor, literally, it dawned on me that I had responsibilities
that needed attending too, namely, another party to go to. One that I was required to bring cupcakes
to.
Shit.
I threw my hair in a pony, downed a cup of
coffee and headed to Walmart.
Walking into Walmart hung over is a time honored tradition
in the self made family of friends I have chosen to surround myself with. Generally, it involves avoiding eye contact
by texting your friends that didn’t come with you about how much you hate being
hung over in Walmart and trying to get out
as quickly as possible.
Like black
ops.
Hung over black ops.
With spectacular savings.
I felt like and looked like an old mattress that had been beaten for
hours with a beer soaked cat and as I
walked in texting I foolishly looked up.
Maybe it was kismet that made me look.
Maybe it was the all too familiar smell of cheap cologne and bad
decisions. Regardless, standing at a
cash register, looking douchey as ever, with his baby mama (who I’ve been told
is his fiancé), and his kid was Chris. In all of his Long Island Iced Tea
swilling, ultimate Frisbee playing, oversized button up shirt wearing glory.
As soon as the severity of my situation
dawned on me I did what any reasonable woman who was in front of the man that
broke her heart while looking like a dead squirrel that had been marinated in
beer for two days would do: I audibly
said “oh shit” and I ran.
Like an over
grown, foul mouthed seven year old, I ran and hid in the bread aisle.
Smooth doesn’t even begin to cover it. None of you out there in reader land can even
begin to understand what a badass I looked like hung over and running through
Walmart wearing nothing but the cigarette smoke absorbing clothes I had slept
in, a terrified expression and obscenities.
I hid for a few minutes by pretending to read the labels on
bagels. Then I got my shopping done and
went home to text my nearest and dearest about my near miss.
One would think I would be able to handle
these awkward situations better, what with my level of experience and all, but
oddly no, I don’t. Which never ceases to
amuse those closest to me.
I guess the
moral here is that if you can’t be good at life you can at least be
entertaining. You're welcome.
