Finally! I have finally unpacked the last box in this fucking apartment. Oh – the relief! I survived! Thank Jesus.
Over the past few days I had to level with myself and realize that yes, looking at this apartment filled to the ceiling with boxes was going to be a daunting task. But despite wanting to curl into the fetal position and sob uncontrollably, I just needed to focus on the task at hand and unpack one box at a time, room by room. Sure as shit – little by little, the boxes became empty. I took the time to carefully arrange everything just so – stacking my books in neat little piles on my bookshelf, arranging the decorative and dusty sticks in my vases to my liking, hell – I think I moved the chair in my living room at least six times before I finally decided to put it in the corner.
As for the mental and emotional unpacking. . . well, that’s been put on the back burner for now. To be honest, I just don’t want to think about it. At this point, I’m just worn down. I don’t have the energy or the want to even think about John or this breakup or this whole change in my life right now. Just … fuck it. Ideally, what I’d like to do is just get rip-roaring drunk and forget that all this is happening in my life. Just for one night.
Thankfully, I was pretty busy with work this week which managed to occupy both my time and my mind. I worked overtime every day (by choice) in order to make some extra cash – (after all, this bitch needs cable)! Each night, after I climbed what seemed like the three hundred flights of stairs up to my apartment, fed the cat and bathed, I was exhausted. Other co-workers joined the overtime team and it was clear come Friday that we needed a celebratory drink at the nearby pub. I was hesitant at first, but then I realized – for the first time in a long time, I could go out for a night with no worries. I didn’t have to be home to make dinner. I didn’t have to call or text anyone to let them know where I was going and why. I didn’t have to divulge who I was going out with and when I would be home. I didn’t have to answer to anyone. I could do whatever the hell I wanted. I was free.
And with this freedom came this overwhelming urge to get laid. But not some passionate love-making session – no – I just wanted a quicky. Just a – boop boop – and I’m out. I wasn’t looking for a rebound – in fact the last thing I was considering was another relationship. And this urge didn’t have anything to do with revenge or “getting on a new one to get over the old one” feel. I legitimately just wanted to have sex. There – I said it. So with the intention of picking up a man and doing the deed, I went home, stuffed myself into some tight jeans, fixed up my face and headed to meet my fellow over-timers.
One beer, two beer, three shots later……..
Oh… oh the horror.
After all reservation and dignity had left my body and I had developed a new self-confidence, I scoured the room for a potential victim. Like a black widow, my web was spun and I was ready to lure in my mate for the evening – albeit without the killing and all that. My co-workers pointed out a rather handsome man sitting at the bar alone, wearing a suit and looking rather dapper. I approached and initiated conversation. Turns out he was supposed to be on a date that night but the girl he was supposed to meet never showed. Poor bastard. He was nice but upon closer inspection his eyes looked really “buggy” – you know – like too large for his face. It was distracting. And his teeth were out of whack. Also distracting. I know, I’m being totally shallow and superficial but whatever. I still have standards. I can’t fuck a guy with bug eyes, ok? I politely backed away, wishing him well on his future endeavours for the evening and took a pass on Suit Guy. We continued to survey the area. Soon my attention was drawn to the bartender. He was cute – really cute. And he was tall – really tall. And he had an aura about him that was just so attractive – or maybe it was the bulge in his trousers. His smile was so perfect. *sigh – he was just beautiful to look at. Now maybe it was the booze but I didn’t feel completely inebriated. I mean, I was able to give this guy a thorough examination and trust me . . . it was thorough.
I even had the approval of my co-workers (who, let’s face it were just as drunk as I was, if not more). After much girly, giggly debate they had convinced me to do the unthinkable. Something that I have never done in my entire life. . . .
I gave Mr. Bartender my number.
Calm and cool I walked up the bar, ordered another beer and upon his return asked him for a napkin. I was writing my name and number down (praying that it would legible) and explaining how, “I don’t normally do this, but if you’re interested, (sliding the napkin his way), here’s my number”. He smiled. I smiled. I could feel my face getting hot so I grabbed my drink and as I turned away from the bar . . . . .
I noticed him . . .
take the napkin. . .
. . . fold it . . .
and PUT IT IN HIS POCKET!
Jackpot!! Mission fucking accomplished!
I was overwhelmed, relieved, hot, and ready to hump his leg. I was panicking. I probably could have used a brown paper bag to hyperventilate in. I briefly entertained the idea of paying his boss his wages for the remainder of the night just to take Mr. Bartender home then and there.
Alas, I didn’t let my sex-crazed psycho show. No, no. I kept it under control and remained a lady. Obvi.
I walked back to my table of groupies, cheering me on from a distance and described what had happened. They were ecstatic – living vicariously through me and my sex-capades. We all raised our glasses in a toast to my accomplishments and my dreams of having sex with Mr. Bartender.
As the night drew to a close I had sobered up and decided it was time to hit the ol’ dusty trail. After all, I didn’t need to keep drinking and wind up embarrassing myself and ruining my chances. Things had already worked out so well. On the way home I was feeling on top of the world. I couldn’t believe that Mr. Bartender actually took my number. It made me feel like, I still had it. I felt young, vibrant, attractive and confident. I felt like I could conquer anything (and anyone). I hadn’t felt that way in a very long time.
I got home, peeled myself out of my jeans and put on my wooly and tattered sweater. Ah, the comforts of home. I didn’t expect to receive a text from Mr. Bartender that night – although, I’m certain I would’ve jumped at the opportunity – regardless of the time of night. But no, I remember this game. There’s a waiting period. This ain’t my first rodeo.
The Wrap Up:
Week 2: I’ve managed to keep my thoughts about John and this break up at bay. If anything, I’ve realized that keeping my mind occupied is key in maintaining composure. Whether it’s work, being around friends or reading a good book – staying busy is crucial at this point.
Having finally unpacked all the boxes, my nerves seemed to have settled down quite a bit. I’m no longer feeling overwhelmed. Instead, I think I may have actually gained a sense of control.
Not gonna lie though – Mr. Bartender was definitely the highlight of my week. I’m excited. And surprisingly, it’s not all in response to the hopeful quicky. I actually want to talk to this guy. I guess . . . I guess I’m kind of smitten with him.
And now, I wait. . .