May 10th, 2008
When last we spoke, I had just met my future husband but, curses, he was poised to slip through my fingers. Who lives in Halifax, anyway? It’s such a stupid city. And so inconvenient when your new infatuation lives there but you didn’t exchange numbers or other contact information on the night you met.
I was reduced to scheming. As I recall it, it took about twenty minutes of wheedling to get Puck (the mutual friend) to agree to arrange another meeting with this mystery man and, as a testament to the fact that I used to absolutely love meat, the second meeting was scheduled to take place at a Brazilian barbecue restaurant. It was to be another mid-scale social gathering. I didn’t want it to be obvious that the real purpose of the event was further scoping out and flirting, so others had to be invited. Puck dutifully arranged this, with much harassing of me in the process. Only your good friends can truly make you suffer, and this was a golden opportunity. Suffering was experienced.
But nevermind that, on to the important stuff: what to wear, and how throughly to groom? Do you ever imagine in advance how things will go? Rehearse what you might say, what they might say? I do. And, back when I was a crazy single lady, I used to run through the upcoming evening’s events to determine how much leg needed to be shaved, if you catch my meaning. I’m an optimist so I did the whole works. In a worst case scenario, my cats might enjoy my very carefully de-haired and lotions limbs. But of course one mustn’t look like one is trying too hard, so a balance was sought between “casual frumpy” (my usual uniform) and “date night,” which would have blown the whole works. You can’t pretend it’s a happy accident that you’re meeting again if you’re in fancy dress.
Oh the machinations!
And then the disaster: we arrive at the restaurant, the fellow is looking most intriguing (I remember him in a South Park t-shirt for this night too, though it seems unlikely he’d not change clothes), and jesus suffering fuck, I end up sitting at the entirely opposite end of the table from him. With about five people between us along one side of the table. Aargh! You know how that goes… you hover, trying to see where the object of your affections will sit so you can conveniently sit next to them, but somehow as the crowd shifts and you waffle with anxious indecision, and all the close seats end up taken – meanwhiel, you’re four metres away sitting next to your cousin. Not that I don’t love my cousins. But it’s hardly a consolation when you’re all infatuated with someone else. All that carefully arranged hair-doing, for nothing! We’ll never exchange another word and he’ll end up going home with the waitress!
Glum with the apparent failure of my plot to win over the handsome stranger, I was forced to console myself with enormous servings of meat. Samba serves chicken wrapped in bacon, and it’s at least as tasty as it sounds. (Meat wrapped in meat! Yum!) I spent the dinner waving over the waiters with skewers of meat and gorging, ensuring a lack of bowel movements for at least three days (back before I discovered fiber, I measured my meals not in calories but days-without-pooping), not to mention the weight gain that I was still seriously fighting. It’s hard to remain depressed when you have eight kinds of meat to choose from, but yeah, I managed it.
Nonetheless I survived the dinner, and afterwards the whole gang moved to a pub (Doolin’s). Here, joy of joys, I managed to orchestrate sitting directly across the table from Him. Swoon! Okay: mission accomplished. The single, unaccounted for flaw? My social anxiety. I’d been so focused on attaining physical proximity that I forgot to preplan things to say, or to drink enough at dinner, so we talked about the first topic I blurted out, which for some reason was safe injection sites as part of a harm reduction model. Which I guess isn’t very enticing or thrilling for a potential mate, but what can you do? Sometimes you choke and end up talking politics. While withering inside. Do normal people talk about these things with hot, intense men they just met? Doubtful! Gah!
But finally the night ended, and once again, we managed to not exchange any contact information. I know it might sound strange to say, considering how often I profess my nervousness around others, but I never have really had any problems meeting men or asking for their numbers. But for some reason, I totally choked that night. And I drove home alone, numberless, anguished. I knew he was leaving for Halifax the next day, so everything was totally blown.
Or was it?
Ooooh! I so love this story! Oh the machinations is right! Gah. I’m STILL in that phase. I hate it.
On a different note, I’ve been to Sambas once in my life – the “bring it on” and “No more meat, I’m about to die” cards are hysterical – and HO-LEE! Even the SALAD BAR is full of meat. I don’t know HOW much meat we ate that night, but my friend kept rubbing his eyes and saying his vision was blurred. Meat Blindness, he called it. Carniverous Ocular Disruption.
Wow. Way to TOTALLY miss the point of the post. Or more accurately, to ramble on in the comments.
Love the stories! Can’t wait for the next installment!