After my adventures in office-flashing, I decided that I needed to take part in some after-work festivities. A large group of my friends was drinking after work at a little bar we like, so I joined them. Now, mind you, I've been at work since 7 a.m., am still in my work clothes and am dragging the huge black everyday purse that is starting to be a staple in my life. I wanted a drink, but I was not staying out late, I told myself and my friends. Was. Not. Staying. Out. Late.
So we drink and eat some bar food. We drink some more.
T, of course, is there. (To be clear, so totally over that. Er, like 99 percent over it.) I wondered if he was going to talk to me ... and that would be a big no.
So, I'm sitting with my girls when I notice a semi-friend of mine talking to T at the bar. I wondered aloud to the table if she had not gotten the official girlfriend memo that clearly states that girlfriends do not speak to boys who are in the process of ignoring one of their girlfriends. (That memo was issued right after the one about friends wearing the same dress as you to prom and right before the one about how friends don't let friends wear spandex.) There are some caveats to this memo -- a girlfriend can speak to such boys if she is yelling at or throwing drinks at them. Otherwise, they do not exist.
I put it out of my head. Then I see one of my best girlfriends go over there (Remember Birthday Girl?) and start talking as well.
So, they reported their conversations back later. I wanted to die.
First girlfriend asked T what had been going on between us and he said that he was a gentleman and he didn't talk about those things. She called him on this and said she already knew what happened -- and this is where it gets BAD -- that she knew we were "more than just friends."
Now, the last thing I wanted anyone telling T was that I thought we were more than just friends. I'm 99 percent over this, remember? I haven't wanted to call him or speak to him or see him. And I didn't ask anyone to talk to him. I figured I'd just pretend he wasn't there long enough that he just wouldn't be. (Kind of a "Where ever you are going, there you are" approach to dating.)
Now, what does Best Girlfriend say to him? She says, "I don't like tension between my friends, so you should go talk to S." (She said she made it sound like it was her deal and not mine ... I don't know.)
Well, T's response is that OF COURSE he's going to talk to me, but he hasn't had an opportunity lately. (Because the 12-hour St. Patrick's Day party was, like, NOT an opportunity to talk to me and his phone forgot my number, apparently.) Then he tells First Girlfriend that "The language was such that it was clear that we were just friends."
Which, it was. I will give him that. (Late night cuddle talk doesn't really count in this situation, I don't think.) But, in my defense, I think it's pretty easy to see how I thought he might be a touch interested in something more, given the phone calls, making out and other activities. Also, I never said we were more than friends. My friends said that.
Also, who says, "The language was such that"? I'm a wannabe writer and I don't talk like that. I have friends who are lawyers who don't talk like that. Stodgy British writers from centuries ago called, they want their sentence construction back.
Then, my friends dragged me over there to chat with T and his friends. It did not go well. Like pulling teeth. So ridiculous. I have had better conversation with my dog, and she doesn't even speak English.
That got pushed aside when some other nonsense drama started because two of my good friends both dated the same guy. Best Girlfriend got mad and insisted on making an appearance at another bar to prove to everyone that she wasn't mad, which was stupid because not only was she mad, but she had every right to be. I tried to talk her out of it, but she was in scorned mode and would hear none of my rational points.
So, I end the night at another bar, still in my work clothes, still with my HUGE black purse and very very annoyed. (Side note: Numerous men commented on the size of my purse. It was odd. Most of them had the typical "I don't understand why you need to carry all of that stuff with you" reaction of every male who's ever seen a purse. One asked if it was "you know, like, a nice designer." I said it was Liz Claiborne, which is good quality, but certainly not a big-name brand. This was impressive to him, which amused me and my girlfriends to no end. "It's not Louis Vuitton," I finally explained to him. Louis Vuitton is the only designer most guys know.)
I finally made it home at 1:30 a.m. I collapsed in bed, with full make-up still on.
Slept in a bit, before waking up to do some laundry. (Or at least start on it.) Went to run some errands, including buying a birthday present for a friend.
I meant to bypass the purse section and head straight to picture frames and candles. But something was calling me. And that something was an on-sale Kenneth Cole black leather clutch with a buckle on it. My heart skipped a beat. It was beautiful. I have been searching for the perfect casual black clutch, one appropriate for going out for dinner or drinks. And this purse was it.
Originally $130, now $80. A great deal. I examined it, trying to discern the drop in price. I saw no major glitches, and so I did a happy dance, tucked it under my arm and headed toward the picture frame section. I was giddy. (It's not online, otherwise I'd show you a picture.)
As I looked through picture frames and candles and other cute apartment-type accessories, a pang of guilt came over me. The adult side of me remembered how expensive the purse was (two cell phone bills or lunches out for two weeks or a little bit of over-priced gas) while the kid in me pitched a temper tantrum about how I wanted it. By the end of the accessories aisle, I knew I was being silly. As much as I do shop, I usually try to be discerning. The Kenneth Cole purse was beautiful, but I didn't need it. I wanted to cry.
I walked over to the purse section and put it back on the shelf. I felt good about my decision to not spend frivolously.
I was comforting myself by thinking about how adult I had just been when some 17-year-old high school brat grabbed my clutch off of the shelf and squealed. She brought it over to her mom, declared that she MUST have it and they bought it on the spot.
I almost cried. (I had to go get a coffee drink to make myself feel better. Evil demon child.)
(I relayed this story to my girlfriends later that night. They agreed that it was better not to buy it, but also understood why I wanted to. They cursed the high school girl with me, and one was quick to point out that, "Your clutch is probably at some trashy house party getting gross beer spilled on it while the 17 year old cries because her boyfriend is making out with another girl." Poor clutch. It deserved a nicer life.)
After the shopping fiasco, I dressed to go out and joined friends for a birthday dinner, which we followed up with dancing. We were supposed to relive our friend's 21st birthday, but she was quick to point out that we were moving a little slower than on that night. I ducked out of the bar early (1ish) because I had a family function the next day.
As I walked out of the bar, a bouncerlike guy was standing by the door. He was giving the women who left high fives as they exited, and he did the same to me. I assumed he worked at the bar ... and then he totally grabbed my ass as I walked by. And not in a way that could be an accident or in a way that wasn't a big deal. I'm talking about a hard assgrab and squeeze that clearly is only acceptable when the person grabbing is your boyfriend of a million years, who has just told you how hot and sexy you are and how you make him feel frisky.
I stopped dead in my tracks, spun around on my heel and this guy took one look at pissed off me and ducked back into the crowd. I weighed the odds of actually finding him and being able to beat him senseless with my purse, but decided against this, as "Angry Purse-Wielding Lady" is an unattractive stereotype to fill.
Instead, I just went home.
I don't know when my dating life went from cute boys and casual flings to jerkoffs and sexual harassment, but I something's gotta give.
The next day I spoke with my best friend from high school. We exchanged our weekly highlights of the good, bad and ugly and she asked if people ever asked why I was single. I said that they did, and I responded that I was "still looking." She said her co-workers were trying to figure out why she wasn't married yet and kept assuring her that "there are still nice guys out there."
She replied, "WHERE? Tell me. I will go to them if you will just tell me where they are."
It reminded me of that scene in Sex and the City (Season 3 maybe?) when Charlotte goes off on how long she's been dating and growls, "I'm tired! Where is he!"