Folks, let me tell you something. Every now and then, under a blue moon and a wide horizon, you meet someone who you just know is going to play a big role in your life. You don't know exactly what kind of role they'll play, whether it be comedy, romance, or tragedy, leading lady, quirky best friend or out-and-out villain, but you just know: this one is pivotal. This such pivotal person is my little Nugget: a tiny diva with a giant sequin and rhinestone personality. She is, in short: abso-fucking-lutely fabulous.
I have to confess: I'm not usually one to reach out and start e-mailing cute girls. As bad as my game is in person, it is no better via e-mail, so I usually wait around for them to notice that I've stalked their profile a couple or three times and hope that they contact me first. It's terrible, it’s chickenshit, it’s … so pathetically me. I have tried to initiate e-mails. I really have, but then I become gripped with writer's block and insecurity and every word I type sounds like it may have come out of the mouth of a knuckle dragging cave dweller. I'm that new hybrid mammal: part Neanderthal, part Homo Sapien, Same-Sex Dater. You can just call me "Troglodyke". But here's the thing: Nugget's profile charmed the shit out of me. I simply HAD to e-mail her.
This girl had perhaps the most charming profile I had ever read. She may STILL have the most charming profile I have ever read. Her humor was quirky and sprinkled with equal parts absurd and adorable. She was witty and so very clever. So the time had come to put on my big girl britches and initiate conversation. And in my typical fashion, I think I probably said something irresistible like, 'hey you're funny'. (God, I’m so sexy, I can hardly keep my hands off myself.) To my surprise though, she actually e-mailed me back. And so, we went back and forth e-mailing. Before long, we'd exchanged phone numbers and we're texting like mad fools. And every single text message from her had me hysterically laughing. Her humor, again, was witty, charming, sometimes irreverent and often absurd. My kind of girl!
Not too long and we've got a first date on the books. Now here's the thing about me: I'm not kidding when I say that I'm ridiculously choosey. As excited as I was to meet Nugget, I was already talking myself out of a possible romantic connection. Call me shallow, call me romantically timid, call me whatever you’d like but here’s the thing: I knew in advance that she was only a hair taller than actual legal "little person" stature. And I'm something of an Amazon creature from hell. So my brain is already ruling out any romantic possibilities because how the fuck is that going to work? Am I supposed to carry her around in my pocket? Should I get a Baby Bjorn? Do I need to invest in a step ladder in case there's an end of the evening smooch? Aww fuck, but whatevs! She's hilarious. I still have to meet this girl in person because no one is that clever in real life ... except maybe Tina Fey and I'm not convinced that she's an actual earthling. Tina Fey's too good to actually be one of us.
So we've got plans to meet at a nearby wine bar and then a "play it by ear/no obligation to stay if you think I'm a troglodyte dinner" to follow. I'm ridiculously excited - drinking wine with a girl who makes me squeal with hilarity. Does it get much better than that?
Literally, the day before my highly anticipated first date with Nugget, she tells me that she's been casually seeing someone for a few weeks and that as of about ten minutes ago they decided to exclusively date. 'Sorry it's bad timing, but I still want to meet you as a friends thing because you seem rad.'
Do you hear that sound, readers? Listen closely. It sounds like, WHOMP WHOMP.
But of course ... as of ten minutes ago ... she's decided to exclusively date someone! Because that is the bountiful good fortune that Miss-Adventures has become accustomed to. (Eye Roll.) But ya know, I still had no idea whether or not we would hit it off and I did still really want to meet her – if nothing else, there's wine and guaranteed laughter, so I agreed to meet ... as a friends thing.
So the day comes. And I'm aware that I've already been banished to the friendzone before having even met her. So fuck it. I don't bother worrying about what outfit looks best on me, which jeans flatter my ghetto booty, or which shirt is just low cut enough to give away a peak but not give away the farm. I throw on a pair of ho-hum jeans, a white tank top, my ugly-as-hell but oh-so-comfy Dr. Marten's boots, and my favorite hand-me-down army green jacket from my ex-wife. Now you may ask yourself, how the hell does Miss-Adventures remember exactly what she was wearing six goddamned months ago? Because, friends. When you meet someone who totally fucking rocks your world, you cannot help but obsess, wish and kick yourself for not having put more effort into your fucking attire!!
My wine bar friendzone date with Nugget was a hell of a lot of fun. After a slightly bumpy start to our meeting (confusion as to where in the bar we would actually find each other, followed by fifteen to twenty minutes of waiting around and wondering if either of us had been stood up, followed by a text message of, “did you change your mind about meeting up?” and then, “oh you’re here, where are you?”), we rebounded nicely. We talked, we laughed, we people-watched and we laughed at the people we watched. Afterward, we headed off for just a quick bite. And all the while, I am killing myself for not having met this girl a week sooner.
Despite the difference in our height (almost a whole foot!) and despite the fact that there was already a lady-friend in her picture, I was completely and totally knocked off my feet. I managed to somehow drive myself home that night and couldn’t get over the fact that I felt literally intoxicated the whole way home and I had had hardly anything to drink. Holy hell – what just happened to me?
Once I got back home, I texted one of my best friends: he’s always there for me, he’s a giant love bug, a great big ball of emotional support and I love him madly. He’s my “gay husband”. You know what a “gay husband” is, right ladies? He’s your date when you’re going stag, he’s your mirror when you’re dressing for an evening out, he’s your sounding board when you need relationship advice and he’s everything a husband should be with the added bonus of emotional maturity and accessibility, which is utterly lacking in straight dudes, and minus the sexual attraction/confusion. Gay Husband needs his own fucking superhero cape.
So after my text to Gay Husband, he calls me right away. I pour over every detail of the evening, lament about my shitty timing, ask him what I should do and then I burden the poor man with every insecurity and neurotic obsession until nearly two in the morning. Gay Husband needs a superhero cape and his own ice cave. I am the Lois Lane to his Gay-Ass Superman. He is that good.
After two hours of indulgence on his part, I finally let Gay Husband go back to sleep. I crawl into bed, snuggle up to my little monsters (also known as “the ferocious felines”) and desperately try to drift off to sleep. Two o’clock turns to three o’clock. Three o’clock turns to four o’clock, and so on. After lying awake all fucking night, I finally get up and out of bed around six o’clock in the morning. And this is the first time I had experienced what I have since come to recognize as the absolute, sure-fire, tell-tale sign that I’ve crushed on a girl: motherfucking INSOMNIA.
And I know: I’m doomed.