Charming, but single

(Note from S: I’m e-mailing this post. I’ll go in and add links to old posts later!)

I was talking to the Relief Worker on my way to sushi with the girls last night when B called. I ignored his call and returned it a few minutes later. He invited me to dinner with some friends and I told him I’d meet them for a drink after dinner since I was in route to sushi.

Before I put my phone away, I noticed that I had a voicemail. It was from B, obviously let while I was talking to the Relief Worker.

He said: “S, it’s B. We’re going to dinner at [Popular Restaurant and Bar]. It’s me and Best Guyfriend and Other Woman and her friend. Come meet us.”

Other Woman! I almost swerved my car into oncoming traffic.

Some backstory – I met B. We got along. We had long talks over beer. We had fun at bars. We kissed. And kissed some more. And then BAM! He’s seeing this girl. (I call her Other Woman.) She’s been friends with him for awhile; he really has liked her for, like, four years or something ridiculous like that. He doesn’t want me to interfere with that. I can understand, but am still obviously unhappy. Then there is still some kissing when drunk. All of our friends can’t figure out why we aren’t dating. Some think we are. This goes on for months. About a year later I find out that B wasn’t dating Other Woman. Maybe he thought he was at some point, I don’t know. Maybe he’s a tool with no cahones so he lied to me. Maybe she was stringing him along (much as he was stringing me along) and he legitimately thought they’d get together. Suffice it to say they were hardly in the throes of deep, meaningful relationship. And by the time I found out about all of this, I’d made my peace with the B situation (for the time being, anyway) and we were friends and I didn’t hate him so much and it seemed kind of silly to have a huge explosion of emotion. I’d just be his friend and move on. I thought. But I had never met Other Woman and I’d always been curious. (B keeps his friends segmented and few people cross groups – I have a little bit, but it has been a tough transition and many of his female friends were very standoffish with me at first.)

But back to last night.

So, I stop myself from causing a major wreck and call Best Friend Ever, who answers the phone, “I am about to get on a plane to go to Las Vegas and I am VERY stressed out right now.”

“But I’m having a crisis! I need you!” I say.

She lets out an audible sigh. “Go ahead, what is the crisis?”

I tell her about Other Woman and B and dinner and I’m freaking out. “Do I go? I can’t go! I hate her! I’ve never met her, but what if she sucks? What if she is wonderful? I can’t go,” I quickly shout, running a spectrum of emotions before she can interrupt me.

Best Friend Ever lets me stress for a few more moments. When I stop, she laughs.

“I do not know who is being more ridiculous here. You for acting like this is a big deal and flipping out or him for inviting you to dinner with her after all of this time,” she said. “Go. You’re curious. But be nice.”

I had to admit she was right, both about me being ridiculous and me being curious.

The girls I was dining with agreed that I should meet B and the Other Woman after dinner for a drink, just to see. My very reasonable Banker friend said, “S, you shouldn’t want her to be horrible and terrible. Because then you were blown off for someone horrible. You should hope she’s wonderful.”

My very emotional Party Girl friend said, “I hope she’s ugly.”

So, after sushi, I reapplied lip gloss, called my College Roommate to get her advice (I need a Task Force of people to weigh in on situations like these) and headed over to meet B and company. I thought I looked cute – black pants, a flowy lace top, pretty new purse and pointy-toe heels.

I scanned the restaurant, took a deep breath and joined their table.

She was nice. And cute. And friendly. And as much as I wanted her to be the worst person ever in the world, she seemed pleasant enough to be around. A bit naïve or possibly inexperienced and immature, but not a terrible, horrible mean woman.

She’s the exact opposite of me. One of those naturally tiny girls who I imagine could eat everything in sight and not really have to work out much. She recoiled in horror when the guy sitting next to her, possibly a guy she’s dating, pinched her side. “Stop grabbing my fat!” she gasped. I could work out six times a day and eat nothing but celery and I’d still not be so petite. (That’s just life.) Pretty dark eyes and tan skin.

She played with my friend’s Treo. She hung all over some guy that wasn’t B, but it became pretty obvious that she wasn’t hooking up with this guy. In fact, she hadn’t even kissed him.

B rolled his eyes when this came to light. “Figures,” he muttered under his breath. Obviously there was some unrequited sexual tension there.

We didn’t have a lot in common. She’s from a very small town. She didn’t seem to have things to talk about except for shallow things people say when they’re trying to make conversation. She talked on her phone and squealed that some boy had to come meet her to go out to a strip of College Bars. (She’s not living here right now, I think.)

I text messaged Party Girl, “She’s cute, but sort of dumb.” (That was terribly mean of me. I know. I’m a bad person.)

Party Girl messaged back, “That’s why he likes her and why you shouldn’t ever like him.”

I tried to engage in conversation. I don’t know how well it worked. All I could think is, “We are so different. Polar opposites. How could he have liked both of us?”

But perhaps he didn’t like both of us. Perhaps he only really liked her and I was just a friend he made out with a few times. And then self-doubt started creeping in. And I’m watching this girl flirt with the guy who’s hanging on her who she hasn’t kissed and I’m watching B react without trying to look like he’s reacting and I’m starting to think that maybe she just likes attention from guys and doesn’t really intend on having relationships with them.

She was drinking my favorite beer. A beer few people drink. It is smooth and dark with a sweet aftertaste. McEwan’s Scotch Ale – a beer B and I discovered one of our nights exploring exotic beer at a local pub. We had never had it and we tried it and I was hooked. I abandoned my repertoire of cider beers for stouts and porters because of this beer. And B would drink it with me and when we were with a crowd he always pointed out how it was my favorite. It reminds me of nights we spent engaged in conversation at a bar. It is familiar.

Seeing her made me wonder about everything. About the flirtation and the beer and if any of it was real to B or if this was all just something I felt so strongly and wanted so badly that it mattered to me and me alone.

I had a McEwan’s, engaged in small talk and ducked out before they went to another bar. I blamed this on an early meeting, but I really just didn’t want to watch. I felt exposed and emotionally naked and I wanted to be in my bed, alone, beneath my down comforter, away from friendly girls and a guy I’d been over the moon in love with.

College Roommate e-mailed me this morning to find out what had happened. I sent her a scathing e-mail that was really unfair to the Other Woman and pretty much everyone else in the situation.

She wrote back that she thought that I was over this. “Good Lord,” she wrote.

I want to be. I am. I’ve been with other guys. And I always relapse when I don’t have someone else to obsess about.

I just want a friendship with B that is like the McEwan’s we so often drink – refreshing and rich, yet smooth and interesting. Different, but still familiar and comforting.

Unlike the beer, the aftertaste of this drawn-out flirtation isn’t so sweet.

If you gaze to the left of this text, you will see my new pretty. She is from “The Big Easy” collection by Kathy Van Zeeland. I love her very much.

I don’t know why I fell so hard for a sparkling tapestry print on denim, bechained, bestudded and bedangled with Fleur de Lis charms. But I did. I saw her on the shelf and had to have her. (Goodbye gift cards, hello pretty purse!)

She holds all of my things and makes a tinkling noise when I walk. I’ve been eyeing Kathy Van Zeeland’s purses for awhile (she started her own accessories line last year after designing accessories for Nine West and Enzo) and this new print and style is just right up my alley.

Funny how a cute new bag can put a spring in my step. So terribly shallow and happy I am.

What kind of prettys did my darling readers get this holiday season?

Note from S: I am backdating this to Dec. 25 because it was written on Dec. 25, but for some reason I couldn’t get it to post. Sorry. Enjoy!

I have eaten too much to write anything touching or sweet or special about Christmas.

Too many cheese-based appetizers, cream-based soups, fat-based meals and sugar-based desserts.

At this moment, I am barely conscious. (Suffice it to say I feel very blessed, this year more so than ever.)

And tomorrow, on my day off, I have an early doctor’s appointment. And then I’m going eyeglasses shopping, because apparently I am now so old that I not only need regular glasses to function daily and prescription sunglasses to drive, but I also require special glasses to help my eyes focus when I’m using a computer.

(Have I written about being an adult glasses wearer yet? I haven’t? Why not!)

Before I drift off into my post-Christmas sugar coma, a story:

Each Christmas Eve, after opening presents with my extended family, I go to Midnight Mass with my parents and siblings. I’m not a terribly religious person (as if that wasn’t abundantly clear already), but it is tradition. It doesn’t seem like Christmas without the singing, the familiar prayers, the two cups of coffee I have to drink to keep me awake past 1 a.m. when the huge meal from hours before kicks in.

I also check out shoes and outfits and purses and hairstyles. I usually run into a former classmate or two.

There’s this cute boy who was a year ahead of me in school. I don’t know him very well, but he’s nice and our parents know each other and we talk when we see each other.

And he is always at Midnight Mass.

I caught a glimpse of him as he slipped into his pew next to his mother. He gets cuter every year – he’s successful, went to a great school, has a good job. Intelligent. Clean cut and tall. Well-dressed. So cute.

A catch. A total catch.

It might be terribly wrong that I check this guy (and others) out at Midnight Mass. Perhaps I am going straight to hell for admiring attractive men from afar. But I can’t help myself. I figure if God didn’t want me to gaze, he wouldn’t give me something so nice to look at.

After the service ended, everyone shuffled out of the Church, stopping to say hello to family friends. The Cute Boy walked toward the door and stopped to talk to another guy who was a year ahead of me in school. I straightened my shoulders, steadied myself on my heels and smiled as I walked by.

My mom turned to me as we hurried through the cold and to the car.

“He gets cuter every year,” she said. “Why didn’t you talk to him?”

We have this conversation each Christmas. I never have a good excuse. This year, I blamed my sudden shyness on the time and being tired.

“I just want to get in bed,” I said.

But really, a girl just needs some boys to look at, but not touch. Cute fantasies (and, no, not sexual ones) and great catches to think about. And breaking out of fantasy mode and actually talking to the objects of our desire, well, it just spoils the fun sometimes.

We all need some pure eye candy every now and again.

And at Midnight Mass, I always have a sweet tooth.

I suppose I could have written the typical birthday post detailing what I’ve learned in my 26 years of living, dating, working and mating. I kind of wanted a low key birthday, which is what I got. It was nice.

Even the Saturday night birthday celebration was fairly low key in comparison to past years of dancing until dawn and other such activities. I still wasn’t feeling wonderful and I had to use my inhaler before I even left the house. (I think I got overheated whilst making my hair big and curly and wonderful.) But I looked cute and totally rocked the cleavage. And dinner was nice and there was singing and I was in bed by 11 p.m. because one cosmo plus two glasses of wine plus tons of medicine is not a cocktail for staying up late.

I’ve done this adult birthday thing before. The agonizing over your age, denying that you’re getting a year older, acceptance of your ultimate fate and drowning of your sorrow in some pink-tinted drink while trying not to fall off of your three-inch heels or set your sparkly shirt on fire with a cigarette. (Which I no longer smoke, thankyouverymuch.)

Adult birthdays are kind of like losing your virginity. You look in the mirror after the first time and wonder if you look different or if anyone can tell. And you study yourself and realize that while you are a little changed on the inside, you’re still the same person you were the day before. Sure, you change a lot between age 22 and 26. And you change a lot between your first partner, the ones in between and your current guy. But the change isn’t an immediately obvious thing – you don’t look or feel any different the moment you turn 26 than you did five minutes before when you were 25. The same goes for before you’re deflowered and after.

So is 26 really even that different than 24 or 25? Are all mid-twenties the same? And will I feel different – excited, scared, frustrated – next year when I turn 27 and enter my late twenties?

I feel like I’m constantly waiting for any epiphany. As if with each milestone, like a birthday or a great new job or other “adult” rites of passage, I’m supposed to gain some magical knowledge that will make life a lot easier and my smile brighter and my heart lighter. And really, the knowledge is gained and the epiphanies happen each day – in traffic, at the grocery store, while pumping gas.

But honestly, right now, at this moment in life, I can truly say I’m happy. I thought happiness and contentment would come like a tidal wave crashing to the shore. And I’d wake up and I’d be soaked with happiness. But it’s kind of like garden sprinklers – a little bit keeps the ground wet and fertile.

There are things I want, but I know how to get them. And I’m wise enough to know that what I really want is usually found in the getting there, rather than in the being there.

I said I was going to avoid the “What I have learned” birthday post. I lied. Sue me.

Cheers to the 26 year olds. Cheers to those in their mid-twenties. Cheers to not needing, wanting or causing emotional earthquakes all the time.

That when my doctor said (during my second visit this week), “S, you’ve had an asthma attack. You will be fine. Here is a prescription and an inhaler. Just take it easy,” he did NOT intend for me to swallow said prescription medicine and chase it with a cosmopolitan whilst my top-coating my nails and wondering if the inhaler fits in my clutch.

Hello, asthma or no asthma, a dozen plus people are planning on having dinner in my honor tonight. It is every Sagittarian’s DREAM.

Here’s to acting like you’re 19 when you’re almost 26.

The show MUST go on.

P.S. Another date with the Relief Worker this coming week. He’s staying at my place! How scandalous!