For a majority of my life, I have been in relationships. Ex and I had a long term relationship. Then I was with BabyDaddy. I never really just dated. I had to no idea how to meet guys, or if I was flirting with someone (which apparently I always was. I’ve probably accidentally flirted with a trashcan, I’m so damn nice.), or to be frank, I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.
Back in 2005, when I was a fresh faced, innocent, college freshman, my roommate 202 and I decided that clearly, we were missing out on something. All we’d done so far in college is have boyfriend drama. We obviously didn’t know how to be single, and decided one day, that we had to at least try it: this single life.
“That boy,” 202 points out a man.
“Is he cute?” I ask. I didn’t have my glasses on and everything was blurry.
“He looks cute. And you said you would give your number to a new boy.”
I squint. This kid looks presentable enough. I scribble my number down on a gum wrapper and throw it out the window. Yes. I’m embarrassed, but I really did that.
We then park the car and wait for the boy to get find the number, pick up the number, and walk us. Seriously. We had no idea what we were doing.
“Heeeeey, girls, this your number?” The boy reaches us. 202 and I exchange horrified looks. He did not have good looks. He did not speak proper english. However, he did have my phone number.
I nod. I don’t know what else to do. He asks us our names. We tell him. Then, we scurry away, out of fear, and disappointment, both in ourselves, and in mankind.
202 and I are in my friend Muscles’ dorm room. We’ve been home for awhile, and there’s been no call from the rogue man on the beach. I’m all set to breathe a sigh of relief when it happens. My phone rings. It’s a random number. It’s him.
We all stare at the phone, until Muscles gets the balls to answer it for me. Probably because he actually has balls.
“Hello?” Muscles answers. He flexes involuntarily at this act of manhood.
The beach rat is clearly confused. “Hey, uh, is this, uh? These two girls? I met em on the beach? They said this was their number?”
Muscles shrugs. “Ah, I don’t know, man. This is my number. Two girls? What were their names?”
“Uh, I think the one was like Lisa? And then Jennifer?” Beach rat stumbles over our names. For the record, those are the names he guessed, and even more for the record, those are not our names.
“What’d they look like?” Muscles is having the time of his life. I’m embarrassed that the ugly man from the beach couldn’t even remember my name.
“I don’t know, man? Like skinny? Dark hair? The one chick was I think Mexican?”
I’ve had enough. The phone has been on speaker phone the whole time and I grab it from Muscles’ hand. “I’m Filipino, asshole!” I yell, before flipping the phone closed.
We all stare at the phone for a second.
“Well,” Muscles reasons. “He knows it’s you, but I don’t think he’ll call back.”
It’s 2012 again. It’s actually last Saturday. We’ve just sung Mahler’s 8th Symphony, and Soprano and I are debating plans for the evening.
“Bottom40,” Alto tells us. I have no idea what this is. I have no idea where this is. But Soprano knows, so we caravan to a strange bar in a strange area of town that I never really venture to, except to see Mr. Poland, who lives out that way.
The bar is strange. The whole event is. It’s themed, and I’m not dressed up at all in theme clothes. Sadness.
Alto shows up, and apparently she knew about the theme, cuz she’s all dressed in running clothes. Then I remember: I never took my soccer bag out of my car.
Alto and I. Note my soccer shorts. I apologize that you can't really see the socks here.
“You wore your dirty soccer uniform to this dance party?” Poof asks me incredulously, days later.
“No,” I clarify. “I wore my dirty shorts. And they weren’t that dirty, because I only played one half on Thursday. Plus, my socks were clean, because I never wear shin guards during indoor.”
“Well, still…” Poof fades off. “I guess it could be worse.”
After a few drinks, we hit the dancefloor. Then I see them. Sunglasses. And I want them. For some reason, I go all sorts of klepto when I drink, and today, I wanted these sunglasses.
And so I take them. I think I’m nice about it. I end up dancing with the [un] sunglassed man for awhile, and between the music, the fact that I have these sunglasses, and the dancing, I’m having a good time. Thus, when he asks my name, I give it. And it gets to the end of the night, and I’m leaving and…
Everything that happens from this point on is open to speculation because I’ll be honest. I don’t remember exactly how it went down.
Someone asks someone else for a phone number. I don’t have my phone on me (no pockets in soccer shorts), so I can’t get his. Going from the story above, you see how great I am at giving out mine, so that doesn’t happen either.
But I do remember this:
“Here,” he tells me. He hands me something. “This will make things easier.”
I wake up the next morning. I got home late and my clothes from last night are in a jumble on the floor. But there, tucked together, are the following: my license, my credit card…and the sunglass’d man’s business card.
By the way, if you’re wondering how I managed to get this man’s card safely home, ALONG with my ever important ID and credit card…I’m ridiculously lucky I didn’t lose anything.