Tiramisu

“I’m sorry if I taste like puke.”

“Don’t worry. You taste like tiramisu, sweet with a little bit of alcohol.”

A little bit of alcohol being the understatement of the century.

I have been on complete and utter dating strike since my last minute cancelation on the neuroscientist quite a while ago. He understandably guilt-tripped me as he was frantically ironing his shirt when I canceled just two hours prior to our date. I told him I’d rather be watching Glee and eating guacamole in my sweat pants. Perhaps that was a tad too truthful a response.

Since that uneventful moment several months ago, I have been greatly uninspired in the world of love. I have been completely without any flirtation, crushes, interest. Mind you, not to the detriment of my life as I am quite content currently. However, I can feel the ghost of love life future hovering over my head, chanting “crazy cat lady, crazy cat lady, an entire container of frosting never hurt a crazy cat lady!”

I have at least had the time to become much more Zen about the whole ex-boyfriend-proposing-to-his- girlfriend-of-two- months-then-blocking-me-from-contacting-him-once-I-voiced-my-astonishment debacle. I’ve also managed to break the cycle of craziness somewhat with My Favorite Mistake as now 3 out of 5 conversations actually end on a civil note. Okay, maybe 2 out of 5, but it’s still a vast improvement since our fiery showdown of destruction.

Queue Halloween and everything it entails for someone in their mid-twenties. House parties. Bargain basement costumes prominently featuring sequin leopard print leggings and a matching exposed bra. Too much alcohol, not enough dignity, and just enough inhibition to let the first two come together with disastrous results. In summary, I got really drunk. Freshman in college drunk. Should know better by now drunk. Drunk enough to be witty and snarky…and yet have to recollection of said comments. Drunk enough that when said comments are related back to me I want to ask, “Ha, who said that…Oh, that was me…Uh…sorry?” Drunk enough to call My Favorite Mistake and ask him to come over to the party I did not invite him to because I needed someone to hold my hair back as I embraced the porcelain throne.

More surprisingly, he did. He rode his little scooter cross town to come bring me water and rub my back while I blubbered like a toddler who had been asked to share their favorite toy for the first time. I lurched about, fell off my bed, and even in the midst of this made a pack with god that I was never going to drink again. I then pretty much attacked FM (post brushing teeth thankfully) and he was still gracious enough to tell me that my kisses tasted sweet but a little drunken.

I woke up the next morning and he was gone. He had tucked me in and left in the middle of the night after slipping a note under my door. He told me to pretend it was a dream and to not apologize in the morning. Burrowing in bed for a few more hours, I finally made it to a standing position. I took him out to lunch (as if moderately priced Greek food could be apology enough) and we watched a scary movie later that afternoon. I dropped him off at home later. We said good-bye.

And, oddly enough, we seem to be okay now. We’re not together or apart. We do not expect anything for each other besides showing up when it really matters and maybe a partner to see scary movies. It seems like both an end and a beginning, a little bit sweet and a little bit right.

-Queen of Spades