“How about we go and stalk Hot Waiter?” Kyle says to me.
I’m a hot mess, which, I suppose is better than being a cold mess. I’m angry, upset, and annoyed that I’m having such a reaction to the situation at hand. I’ve called one of my best friends, a guy who knows me better than possibly any other man. And while once upon a time we used to date, the friends we’ve become since then is far more important than who we were as a couple.
This is a man who has held my hand through me finding a lump in my breast. This is a man secure enough in his manhood to go and buy me fake eyelashes in my moment of need (his thoughts on that were “For the record, I would vastly prefer tampons…at least that way people know they aren’t for me.”) This is a man who has laughed at every awkward story about purse-stealing, gun-rack-buying, or covered-in-bugs man-themed misadventure. He is not afraid of the drama that hanging out with me may or may not provide. He’s been around long enough to know better.
I am wearing a black dress that is a size too big and, without the camisole underneath, is a scandalous boob-tastic event.
Ogling hot waiters is one of my most favorite hobbies. And knowing that I’m feeling a little down, it means so very much to me that my very straight very ex-boyfriend would not only agree to such an outing, but suggest it.
We lie in wait of our prey. We laugh. We talk about life, dating, and the pursuit of other bad habits. Eventually, Kyle leaves me. He’ll go home to sleep and leave me to ogle all on my own, but not without imparting these final words:
“Take the tank top off, let the girls breathe!”
Some of my favorite ex-boyfriends are now my best girlfriends. I don’t know what this means exactly. Either I have great taste in men (in so far as they become good friends in the post-dating phase) or I have awful taste (in that I keep picking partners better suited as buddies than dates). Regardless, there are a few men that without I would feel a little lost. Here is one such man.