Posts Tagged ‘donuts’

I Knew The Bride When She Used To Rock N' Roll

Monday, September 7th, 2009

Carol and I had been told that there wouldn’t be any single men at the wedding.  But that didn’t mean we didn’t still have a PLAN for that hot cousin everyone forgets about.  We were prepared, armed with cocktails and flirtation, her with those long legs and me with my boobs.  We were ready.  And there was a tower of donuts. We were unstoppable.

Trouble is we weren’t lied to.  There weren’t really any single men at the wedding save for the few men we already knew who were part of our circle of friends. While they are great people and lovable stoners they’re, well, friends.  Wandering around people watching, I realized I knew at least 60% of the guests.  People filed past and I began to realize that even people who weren’t in this particular circle of friends looked familiar.

Hypothetically I may have gone through a supremely slutty phase after what’s his name and I split up and sold the house all those many many years ago.  Hypothetically I may have gotten drunk at a lot of parties and concerts and trivia nights and made out with the men (attractive or no) who were friends of friends or friends of friends of friends.  Hypothetically.  If I had actually done these things I would blame it on the pain and say it’s a perfectly natural way to mend a broken heart.  Hypothetically.

As I stood at the bar I noticed 3 men that I’d definitely either made out with or think I’ve made out with.  This would be awkward were it not for the following facts: (a) I’m no longer that breed of lip-slut, (b) we were likely drunk when the alleged events transpired, and (c) I’m now older, wiser, and writing a dating column where all this stuff is useful.

Carol and I start chatting with a guy; a guy whom we can’t decide if he’s gay or just southern.  We’ll call him “Jeff from Mississippi” [not his name].  He claims he has met and knows both of us.  We claim mistaken identity or donut coma. It seems very banal until I need to find the loo and Jeff from Mississippi decides to show me since he’s gotta pee too.  We race (more info that you needed, I know) and (after I win) as we walk down the stairs back to the party he slips his hand behind my back and says, “You were just bullshitting when you said you didn’t remember me, right?”

I laugh and say something that confirms I was just being silly and of course I remember him.  I do not remember him. I am half convinced he is a sneaky bastard making up lies about knowing people to create tension at parties…when I ask him,”Why are you in [state that actually isn’t] Mississippi again?”

“I live there,” he says above the din of the crowd. “You know, I have a family there.”  This is said with one eyebrow raised as though I’m asking a question I already know the answer to. I’ve received a response that for some reason is eerily familiar.

I wish I could have seen my own face.  Because you see right now it’s all flashing back to me. Three years ago. Dulcinea’s. Colfax. He’s somebody or others friend from out of town. We definitely made out.  And making out in a hippie bar is fun up until the point where your make out buddy mentions his wife and kid(s?).

At that moment I wanted to take a Karen Silkwood shower.

Because I am a sap who believes in true love.  And somewhere out there is a guy who doesn’t cheat on his wife or leave his live-in girlfriend for a 19-year-old waitress (not that I’m bitter) or make out with a 22-year-old pseudo-divorcee in a random bar.

I almost choked on my donut.  I now remembered Jeff from Mississippi but longed for the time just moments before when I was oblivious to who he was.  Because now I just felt icky.  I had made out with another woman’s husband.  Gross.

I back Carol in a quiet corner and hiss the story to her. She nods, not approvingly, but understandingly.

Somehow I have the unfortunate superpower of attracting married men and not knowing it.  Damn. The. Man. I need another donut.