It was 11pm when I received the call. Then the begging began. I was cozy in bed with The Lineman (he was beaning); I was reading Barrel Fever in a tank top and sweatpants. I was comfortable. The cell rang; I ignored it. Then the home phone rang. Ignore. Then in with the cell phone again. So I picked up; they meant business. This wasn’t some, "oh I said I’d call" call. This was heartfelt, "get your ass out of bed. We’re sending a car to get your ass and won’t take no for an answer." So I put on eyeliner, jeans, and a smile.
Then I walked into a club, and I hate clubs. For me to connect with someone, I like good conversation laden with stories and good questions. I like connecting to brains before bodies. I leave a club smelling like smoke and feeling tired. It’s a waste of my time. Not because I don’t meet anyone, but because I’d have prefered spending that time seeing live music. I digress. Thankfully, we had a table, so I didn’t have to get bumped all night by men who think they can move you along by taking charge of your hips.
I used to say, "I don’t go out to meet guys," but I didn’t mean it. Then I’d continue, "I’d never meet a good guy at a place like this." I meant that, and I still do (I genuinely wasn’t there to meet anyone other than my friends). But I would get arguments flung at me about how any person I would meet would have an uphill battle having to explain why he was also dragged there. And that’s about right. I am sorry. I don’t want some ONE going, velvet rope, I don’t wait on lines guy. I want a baseball capped barn jacket banker.
There, I said it.
I want an American looking preppy who is good in bed. And he has to make as much money, or more, as I do. You know why? Because I already put someone through medical school. Know why else? I want what I want. I want to be able to go to a nice restaurant and not worry that my taste is too expensive. I don’t want to compromise my lifestyle; there are enough compromises in relationships. I don’t want to give up the things I like just because I’m in a relationship; I’d rather be single. And I’m not paying someone’s way again. There, vent is now open. I’m not going to clubs anymore unless it’s someone’s birthday.
I’m not saying I wouldn’t live in a cabin near a lake married to a professor, as long as he looked good in white tee-shirts and didn’t mind my cold feet. I like the idea of it. A house with sounds and planks and breath. Potholders, leftovers, a sliced apple on a wooden cutting board, a bathtub we’d share, a wet bathmat we’d argue over, and a porch, from which we’d watch the rain as it graced our vegetable garden—okay, my vegetable garden. At night, he’d tell me bedtime stories about the kitchen we would be building, and he’d walk me through all the gadgets, describing my espresso station, and the separate area reserved just for baking and rolling dough (God, I love the kitchen). Then he’d whisper, "Goodnight Savannah." ‘Cause he’d know I always loved the idea of the south. I grew up wishing I could have a coming out party with petticoats and ribbons and banana curls. I’d drink sweet tea instead of espresso. I’d wear yellow and sunhats, and there would be a lake, just like then. And I’d have smiled when he asked if we could live near a lake. I’d name the house something southern, even if we lived up north. I want all those things, and I won’t meet a him like that in a place full of silicone and Prada.
Anyway, as I was saying… I get to ONE, and I see a photographer friend of mine who works for JoonBug. So I give her some HTML tips, and then, like that, I can’t find my friends. Hey, if you’re lost, don’t make any moves. So I stood alone in the club for a good 15 minutes thinking about my life. I’m not lost; I can make all the moves I want.
Then, a European guy hit on me. Then another. What’s my deal with all the foreign dudes? Nothing scares me more than foreskin.