Yep, It's a Little Like This Sometimes, Ladies

What’s a little public humiliation between friends, right? This is what I tell myself to pale the rampant blushing that refused to ebb after a sweet little episode I was involved in last weekend. And by sweet I CLEARLY mean momentarily disheartening but chalk-a-block full of hilarity after the fact, especially when I remember that these type of scenarios are merely drops in the ocean. Alright, should I just get on with the story already? Fair enough, lemme set the scene:

In the last semester of my very last year at college I took an impossibly stimulating philosophy class, and in this class that taught me about modern thought, I thought about the delicious man who sat behind me. Everyday I tried to think of something disarmingly witty and effortlessly hip to say to him. Every freakin’ day I tried, but nothing came to mind of if, God forbid, did I never grew the pair of cojones necessary to translate those thoughts to words. So I would sit there and coyly look at him as he wrote in his journal (yes, he was a writer – like me [sigh] – they always are) and hope he would see me writing in mine and comment. I know, I know: it’s all tragically sixth grade of me, but I’m a shy girl. After an entire semester of this dynamic, however, even I got fed up and decided to talk to him mostly because it was the last day of class and, fuck it, what did I have to lose? When class ended he went to talk to our Professor and I moved things around awkwardly in my tote bag to look busy until he was done, and then I made my move. He went for the door. I went for the door. And I had it timed so perfectly that he was holding the door for me, but just as I was about to thank him for his adorable kindness the deaf kid who always sat in front grabbed my arm and prevented me from executing my plan of attack. As I turned around to KILL whoever had just fucked this up for me I noticed it was the auditorily disabled kid and knew my chance was gone. What was I going to do, tell him to fuck off? No, because then I seem like a bitch. Damn it. I looked back at the door and Mr. Hipsterly Perfect shrugged at me and let the door close behind him and in front of my aspirations. The real bitch of the whole situation was this little kid was pulling the same shenanigans I was trying to pull off, and after repeatedly asking me to grab coffee and me repeatedly making up excuses off the cuff (poorly, I might add), he settled for an email and I was finally out of my misery. Poor kid.

Did I mention he had a Johnny Depp vibe going for him? Yep, so adorable: floppy brown Beatle hair, mustache, corduroy pants, flannel shirts, and the coup de grace, constantly pondering what he was about to write next. I would have handed the man my panties on the spot if they had been requested.

 

One Large Pizza with a Helping of Humiliation, Please

Well, fast forward to an entire summer later. My crew and I had been at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival all day and, after picking up my favorite lesbian couple (who were beautifully drunk, by the way), the merry group went to Georgio’s on Clement Street. They make the best damn pizza in the city, and the interior looks and feels stereotypically Italian in all the best ways. And on that particular night it was also the very same place Mr. Hipsterly Perfect was dining! So I sounded a code red to the group and entertained them with the aforementioned story which led to a unanimous decision that I HAD TO talk to him. I vehemently resisted because I never actually spoke to him in class and still didn’t know his name, but for whatever reason my loneliness, his smoldering good looks, or my loneliness, I agreed to walk over and talk to him provided one of my Lesies agreeing to act as my wing-man (no threat). She agreed and the nervous trainwreck that was me set out to “use the restroom.” As I got to his table I slowed my pace and tried to catch his eye so I could pull the old, “Oh hey, weren’t you in Dr. Thomas’ class last semester?” dealio, but the bastard never looked up so I kept on walking, shaking my head while doing so because I could hear my Lesi behind me drunkenly muttering (not so quietly) “Oh, oh, not stopping, not stopping, abort mission, abort mission!”

After a brief reclamation of my composure in the Ladies’ with my Lesi, we decided to just try it again. But pass number two went even worse, as a very large party stood up and rerouted us completely opposite his table. Boo-freakin’-hoo. So I did what any self-respecting girl would: sat in the booth directly diagonal to his and creepily stalked him with my eyes, acting hip and nonchalant when his eyes would pass my way, and then returning to the creepiness. As did the rest of my group, awkwardly enough. Yeah, we were the creepers in the family restaurant -don’t you dare judge us. Anyways, do not ask me how, but somehow we came to a collective decision that it would be a very good idea to have my friend Papa Bear intervene on my behalf and, because he is the most wonderful person on the planet, he bit the bullet and approached Mr. Hipsterly Perfect when he and his party rose to leave. With my name and number in hand, he asked this man if he was in Dr. Thomas’ class last semester? He admitted he was. Papa then asked if he remembered a cute (thank you, Papa) blonde girl named Nicole? He also fessed up to knowledge of said blonde (me). He then asked if he would like my name and number for what-have-you? And his girlfriend (yes, you read that correctly: girlfriend) turned around at that point and said, “Uhm, I’ll take that, actually.” To which Papa apologized, excused himself, and came back to us suppressing the laughter which was so well deserved in lieu of my mortification.

And oh yeah, that girl gave me the look of death: I doubt we’ll be braiding each other’s hair any time soon.

And therein is just another example of how I routinely fail at this whole romance debacle. I’m not a troll, I can carry on variegated topics in conversation and, you know what, god dammit? I’m interested and interesting and still I’m batting .000 in this thing we call life when it comes to dating. Which can only mean one thing: it’s all a shit-show, so you better live to laugh and laugh at the life that lives you, or else you ain’t never getting those embarrassed cheeks to pale.

So good luck, sisters. Solidarity.