Back in the good ole days, most of my gal pals were single. I like to reflect often on what I now call “The Glory Days.” If I had only known that these days would be fleeting, I might have taken advantage of them more.
The majority of my friends now are married or in long-term relationships. My nickname, “Fifth Wheel,” wasn’t by accident, people!
I did the complete opposite of what most people do. I spent most of my teens and twenties in committed relationships. When my late 20s hit, I took it as the opportune time to be footloose and fancy free, and I have yet to look back. I’ve gotten quite used to being self-centered and able to do what I want, when I want, with who I want. Not only have I gotten used to it, I’ve gotten really good at it.
Rewind many, many years ago, I was at a bar with two attractive gal pals of mine. Three guys came up to our booth, plopped down and the two normal, semi-attractive guys started to talk with my friends (AKA, try to sleep with them). I was left with a guy who not only seemed annoyed that he got stuck with me, but he also happened to be rocking a ‘do VERY reminiscent of Michael Bolton.
The combination was not appealing.
At a loss for what else to do, I tried to make small talk with this Irish Michael Bolton. I mainly did this by wailing, “I said I loved you, but I lied!!!”
Fine. This didn’t happen. I probably just asked him where he lived and what he did for a living. Regardless of my choice of conversation topics, he was having none of it.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, he proceeded to look me up and down and proclaimed, “You look like you eat a lot of cheese.”
At the word “cheese” I began to lick my lips and fantasize about a parade of cheese making its way to my mouth. Mmmm havarti, why how are ya? Fancy seeing you here, Brie. Why, it’s been ages! Ricotta? I gotta!
How did he know I love cheese? Was it the lingering scent of parmesan on my breath? Or perhaps the chunks of feta that were still residing between my teeth?
I then realized he was probably alluding to the fact that I might look a little puffy. Or portly. Or whatever you want to call it. I mean, honestly, eating a lot of cheese sounds like a pretty awesome thing to me. But based on the look on his face, I assumed he was talking about how cheese has an ability to expand your horizons. And by horizons I mean your waist line.
There is nothing worse than being called fat by an unattractive, rude, Michael Bolton lookalike.
Who did this guy think he was??? I didn’t want to be stuck talking to him anymore than he wanted to be talking to me! But you didn’t see me grabbing at his Mississippi grapevine and crooning “When a Man Loves a Woman.” (Instead I chose to write a story about him and broadcast it on the World Wide Web.)
I should have grabbed my jiggly midsection and passionately screamed out “Get in my belly!” while launching myself at the nearest hunk of dairy.
Instead, I informed him that “I fucking love cheese. What’s it to you, asshole?”
At this, I proceeded to leave the booth and stand by myself at the bar far, far away from Michael Bolton.
I also choked back tears with some fried mozzarella sticks.
How am I supposed to live without you?????
Moral of the Story:
Seriously, it’s not that complicated.
People come in all shapes and sizes. If you’re stuck talking to a “grenade”, “rhino” or whatever you want to call her, at least be civil.
ESPECIALLY when you look like Michael Bolton. Who are you to judge?