So. The first weekend. Out of a severely limited number of...4. Gotta maximize.
Friday night, tutored after work, then drove late into Pittsburgh. My sister was moving early Saturday morning to Erie for medical school, and being the indispensibly buff family member I am, she was clearly in need of my services. As we were carrying all her boxes of shit on Saturday, we ran into one of her new neighbors, a handsome lad wearing a med school t-shirt, who waved and said hi. This reminded me in a not subtle way about how she'll be drowning in ambitious, capable men in all her classes, and I'll be trying to learn the names of all the brand new CBTs this summer who will all be cute engaged women in their twenties.
Came back to Cleveland Saturday afternoon to attend a lovely engagement party / shower for two good friends in Beachwood. They are happy and are in love and have that enviously perfect balance of playful pandering and a seriously solid chemistry. It was really nice to see some college friends and play adult for awhile. Naturally, there has to be some sort of line now that goes something like: "And of course, I ran into my ex," so, of course, I ran into my ex, and we had interactions where we both pretended like it was totally fine, even though it was definitely anything but fine. Somehow, everyone who's ever ended things with a great love has gotten the elusive memo that it's imperative to always pretend like your life without them is impossibly perfect. I do not know who is perpetuating such a memo, but I would wish to inform them that this sort of shit is NOT FEASIBLE unless you are a professionally trained thespian, and even then, you need no fewer than four drinks and a pre-event wardrobe consultant. Afterwards, I was restless and my head was spinning from what I wished was enough alcohol. So I made the consistently ideal decision to drive downtown and go out! Alone! At least I looked really good, and my mascara hadn't run TOO much.
I headed down to West 6th to meet up with my good friend Katie from work. (Name changed to protect the sort-of innocent.) "Come out!" she texted, "We have a VIP room and free drinks and you can work on the project!" After driving around for 20 minutes looking for a parking spot and realizing literally no one on West 6th is over the age of 18, I just told her I'd meet her on West 25th, where they were heading next, and where I felt slightly more confident I might meet someone who knew how to spell his own name. Turns out, one should never assume. This kid (I say "kid" because he looked like a zygote) comes up to her, and says, "Hey girls, can I buy you a shot?" I roll my eyes. She gives me a look that says, "Shut up. He'll be amusing content for the blog." He still hasn't even looked at me, probably because I could be his mother and he knows it. He keeps making douchy comments like, "Come on, give me a hug" and "Trust me -- I AM really good." My friend is doing an impressive job at entertaining this idiot, and we walk up to the bar. "So I'm a junior...what year are you?" he asks her. I actually choke on my gin and tonic while this child continues to dig himself into the ground. Next he asks what kind of shot we want. He obviously has no idea what to order or how to talk to women, and I kind of want to take pity on him and help him, but then Katie takes his credit card and tells the bartender to leave it open while Zygote isn't looking, and she whispers to me she's committed his first and last name to memory so we can add to the tab throughout the night. I quickly make a mental note that she's schooled him so much better than my prospective lecture could have, and I tell myself she is not only impressively stealthy, but a grand ally in this project.
At this point, it's like 1:30 a.m., and out of the corner of my eye I see Zygote flexing his bicep for some preschool girl, and I realize this night doesn't hold my soulmate. I hand Katie the remaining half of my G&T and tell her to find someone to give it to. Hopefully she handed it to Zygote as part of his lessons on how to be a respectable human being, which shockingly doesn't include consuming Natty Light. I drove home exhausted, irritated, and kind of despondent. Even the drive-thru was closed, which made me mad and relieved at the same time. When I woke up at 1:30 p.m. this afternoon to the sound of the heavy rain, I knew I wouldn't continue with my Sunday agenda of the Cain Park Art Festival and the Taste of Tremont. And not because of the rain. I didn't have any more energy to chance running into the ex or flirt or babysit. Pull your shit together, Alexandra! You only have one life and you are worth believing in. And this wedding MIGHT be no-children, so Zygote wouldn't have even qualified to sit at the chicken fingers table and pretend to be a blow-up doll. Ladies: we're gonna need to pull together a week's lineup of happy hours. Like, we're talking 5 out of 5 days. Message me with what days you are free. Especially if you are particularly strong in thespianism or wardrobe consulting.
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