In the Business of Homewrecking

I wasn’t going to blog this, but I haven’t had anything else even remotely interesting happen to me in the past few days, so here it is!

I haven’t been going to class as often as I should recently, so after begrudgingly dragging myself to Shakespeare class on Tuesday night I was grateful for the early dismissal brought on by bad weather. Instead of getting out at 8:50, we left at around 7:30. I was glad to have an extra hour to work on what seems like a million upcoming papers. Rather than be responsible and use that time wisely, however, I decided to go to my favorite watering hole for some dinner. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? Get groceries? Ha.

With every intention of having one drink with dinner and then hightailing it back home to gaze into my computer’s glowing face, I ordered a dirty martini and a grilled cheese sandwich. (Best grilled cheese I’ve ever had, it is called the “white cheese” sandwich and has about a zillion different white cheeses on it, including feta.) I intended to sip the martini and revel in the Grey Goose until my dinner was done, and then leave like a normal person would.

I forgot to mention that my good friend is the barkeep at this watering hole, and when she is lacking in mouths to feed (and livers to destroy) she likes to experiment with shots. And she likes me to try them. After about two hours longer than I wanted to stay, I met a nice man who happened to take the bar stool next to me. He interjected that I should not, in fact, attempt going to law school after my undergrad studies are complete. That is how I found out that he was a lawyer and now he flips houses. He was charming, funny and seemed uncommonly worldly for our given location. As someone who had all but given up on finding an interesting man to talk to, I was impressed.

We talked for what seemed like forever, drank and laughed. He then hopped down from the stool and revealed himself in all his tiny glory. He was only 5’7″. This, my friends, is what I would normally call a deal breaker. I cannot date a man who is shorter than me. I just can’t do it. I already feel like an Amazon woman and I don’t need a daily confirmation of that. However, I decided to look past the gnomeness of this gentleman, given that I was so impressed with the less shallow aspects of him. We hit it off. So did our lips.

I exchanged numbers with him at the end of the LONG night (didn’t get home until the wee hours of the morning) and left hoping to hear from him again. I didn’t have to hope for long, since he texted me promptly the next morning (a few hours later, rather). It was a simple “Hi, I really enjoyed talking”…etc. Nothing fancy. But, it was encouragement!

I was feeling pretty good despite the hangover and lack of sleep until I received a call from an unknown number. I answered, thinking nothing of it.

It was a woman who had gotten my name and phone number texted to her in the middle of the night. How curious. She asked if I had perhaps met someone named *** (Not sharing that!) the previous night, to which I of course responded, “Yesss…” tentatively. As it seems, the wonderfully charming man I had met and thrown aside my prejudice against midgets for had not stored my name and number in his contacts list, but rather accidentally texted it to his GIRLFRIEND. The girlfriend he told me he did not have when I asked him outright.

She was a completely rational and smart woman who thanked me for my honesty and assured me that she would be breaking up with him that evening. She apologized for the awkward situation and said that she wasn’t even going to mention to him that she knew about me. She was just going to break up with him cleanly and simply and leave him asking questions. She has restored my faith in young women while simultaneously crushing my hope of ever finding a normal, decent man.

If asking a man if he is attached isn’t enough, then I am out of ideas.

What a douche.


One thought on “In the Business of Homewrecking

  1. nikkigsblog says:

    Cripes…it never ends… I’m not settling down until I see “not a D-Bag” stamped on the bottom of the foot by JESUS…no joke

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