Despite an unfortunate glitch two weeks ago (wherein I woke up in an apartment that was not my own and discovered I had lost a purse, phone, keys, cash, eyeglasses, dignity and memory of the previous 9 hours) I predict this dating season will be fairly mature, sober and, hopefully, boring.
You hear that, universe? I am now OK with boring.
Why, just Saturday, I met an older, sober, divorced father by the park for lunch. It was a gorgeous day and, while my expectations were suitably managed, the weather encouraged me to think this would be the beginning of an exciting spring. Well, at least the wine we had with lunch was nice.
To be fair, he was a perfectly nice guy: smart, mildly funny, successful and tanned. But...he was the size of a jockey. I'm no towering inferno of feminine hotness but even I dwarfed him. And then we started talking about therapy (he brought it up) and he admitted to some issues. Angry, bitter, confrontational issues. So we wrapped up lunch, walked into the park, shook hands at the Bean and went our separate ways.
As I walked down Michigan I told myself that the past 90 minutes would have been better spent browsing the comic book store around the corner.
...
I've been thinking about that Friday night before last and the responses a story like mine usually elicits from people who feel awfully comfortable turning judgmental on women who may drink one too many and then things happen to them.
Hell, I can even remember saying those things: "What did they think was going to happen? Didn't they think? Why didn't they prepare? Why weren't they careful? How dumb do you have to be..."
Judgment, judgment, judgment.
Taking a look back at that evening, I wonder, Where did my judgment falter? Was it when we were walking to his place? Was it when I ordered the second martini? (A martini that normally would have left me totally unaffected, btw.) Was it when I suggested stopping for a nightcap earlier that night after the event instead of stopping at McDonalds for several Big Macs? Was it when I rushed to get dressed that evening for the event and decided not to grab a bite to eat? Or was it when I had that last glass of white wine at the event and thought a plate of nibblies would do me?
(And these are rhetorical questions. I'm totally not interested in folks telling me how I should turn back the hands of time and not done this or that when, really, the ground zero of that whole night was a skipped meal.)
Though I'm abashed at the amount of fallout that one lost Friday night created, I'm fairly happy that I took care of everything speedily and with a minimum of fuss - credit cards and ID recovered, new phone, new keys/locks paid for, heartfelt apologies to friends made, and Plan B contraception taken. Yay, responsibility.
(And let's give a hearty shout out to Plan B, purchased at CVS immediately the following Saturday morning. With no problem or interference at all, I shelled out $50, took the pills and endured a whole day of nausea and dizziness.)
Anyway, this was all supposed to be about the hot Israeli locksmith who helped me Friday but turned into something else. Oh, well.
11 comments:
Now, were you merely drunk on an empty stomach, or is there a possibility someone slipped something into one of your drinks? Unless you can reassure me that a 9-hour blackout from that amount of booze (on top of not enough food) is within the realm of the expected based on past experience, I worry.
Oh, ding. No "shoulda-coulda-woulda" from this side of the room. That lost Friday night sounds pretty hideous. Yay for responsibility, a positive forward-looking attitude, and being gentle on yourself. And I'm with Orange, wondering if a lack of dinner plus a few drinks can really add up to that many hours gone.
HOWEVER, I'm all for positive spring dating from here forthwith. And I'm still ready to read about the hot Israeli locksmith, anytime you're ready to tell the story. :) (Til then, hang in there.)
The first drink was consumed very fast; the second, I didn't even finish and I left the bar to go to the bathroom. Something could have been slipped in, but friends were right there and I think they would have seen something?
I had only a salad about 9 hours earlier and I literally quaffed that first Makers Mark Manhattan like it was Evian - on top of a few glasses of white wine at the event. So, I mixed and I think the alcohol hit me pretty hard and fast.
My poor bloodstream was basically a superhighway of boozed-up-ness.
That said, JP said it sounded like I'd been roofied.
I don't know what that's supposed to feel like so...to me, I was wasted.
Frakkin' trader.
No memory....Yup-- you were definitely roofied. The guys who pull this stuff are pretty slick or in cohoots with the bartender. Sorry to hear that chick and recovering stuff from a stolen purse is a pain in the arse!
What's going on with the locksmith? Sounds like a good story is on the horizon
BTW Rohypnol would make you sick and dizzy too
I totally remember some parts of the evening but not all - part of the walk home, but not all; arriving at the apt but not after. Then, morning.
I was truly at my best, ladies.
Frak, indeed. I have to agree: it does sound like you were drugged; I'm sorry, that sucks.
And, even if you weren't: everyone's entitled to the occasional lapse in judgement, especially as a grownup. And hey, now you have a story. A potentially scary, or funny, depending on how you tell it, story.
I will err on the side of funny. Now I don't feel bad about stumbling in his bathroom and ripping the shower curtain/rod from the wall.
Now I don't feel bad about stumbling in his bathroom and ripping the shower curtain/rod from the wall.
Good fer you!! :) Call it a natural consequence for taking advantage of a person under the influence. I maintain that if you were intoxicated enough to be separated from your PURSE, fergawdsakes, the only appropriate thing for him to do would have been to pour you into a cab with a couple twenties to make sure the fare is paid. Frakkin' trader.
so here's the hot israeli locksmith story:
last friday was the day i set aside to take care of the replacement mailbox lock/keys. i had spent all week researching the kind of lock it was, dismantling the lock, communicating with my mail carrier about delivery, tracking down who carried the lock, how much it cost, who could install it, etc.
i was determined to be as responsible and self-reliant as much as possible. but it was all to no avail. i couldn't figure out how to reinstall the lock. so i called the first locksmith i could find on my new smartphone who said his guy would come in 20 minutes.
one hour later, i'm about to pitch a fit and this man walks up to my building. (i'm waiting on the steps of my lobby.) he was gorgeous. not just good looking but bonafide HOT. medium to tall height; cropped black hair that you could still tell had a wavy texture to it; olive skin; big dark eyes with long thick dark lashes; strong jaw and nose (the romance novels call it 'aquiline') and a mouth that was, uh, yummy. a strong build but not too overgrown, you know? just...right.
it was like having a hot member of the mossad fix my lock. he applauded my research efforts, he replaced the lock, he overcharged me for the service and i blushed and giggled like i was in junior high the whole time.
so, if anyone lives in my neighborhood and needs a hot locksmith, let me know. i can hook you up.
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