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I write to you from my cubicle in downtown Chicago. I’m hungover, unshowered, starving, and fresh off of one of the best nights of my life. It’s Wednesday night, and in a few days, it’ll be Christmas. What a time to be alive. To understand why I’m feeling myself so hard right now, I have to take you back. Back to early Tuesday evening as I left work; when I thought my night was going to be centered around a fresh evergreen scented Woodwick and a gently used copy of Helter Skelter I had picked up from around the corner.
Two days prior to this was Sunday, where I woke up with Saturday night’s clothing still on regretting a few texts I had sent to an old flame. In high school, I used to love reading drunk texts that I had sent the morning after. They were always so patently ridiculous that all I could do is laugh at myself. But when I do it now, it’s usually just some sappy bullshit that I would never say sober. So I had a splitting headache, anxiety about what I did the night before, and I still had to go to the grocery store and do laundry that I had been putting off for the better part of a week. I laid in bed for about an hour, hating my life, and finally embarked on a journey to Trader Joe’s at 10:40 a.m. in sweats and a winter jacket. The following is a text exchange during my trek to the store.
Blake 10:53 a.m.: You going to Kristin’s thing tonight?
Read at 10:55 a.m.
Me 10:56 a.m.: Fuck. Forgot about that. Yeah, I guess. What time are you going over there?
Blake 11:05 a.m.: 6-ish. I’ll give you a shout before we head out.
Read at 11:07 a.m.
Sidenote: For everyone out there that’s saying, “Who the fuck has their read receipts on?” I say this: you’re putting yourself on a path for failure when you have them turned off. Gain the upper hand in any relationship. With your close friends, read receipts don’t matter. But when you’re using them for evil, like to fuck with girls that text you, it’s pretty fun. Nothing says “I’m not into this” like reading a text and sending a one-word response back two and half hours later.
After a long day of grocery shopping, doing two loads of laundry, and laying in bed watching Seinfeld, it was time to walk over to the party. I’m not usually one to go out on a Sunday night, but I’ve gotten comfortable enough at my current job where if I show up 15 minutes late on Monday morning because of a hangover, it’s not the end of the world.
It was a Christmas/Hanukkah themed get together, and everyone there was drinking red. Like a lot of red. And I started talking to the host who began telling me and three of my buddies about this new app she had found that sets you up on group dates with other people in the area. Being drunk, and also slightly bored with the people who had decided to attend said party, my three friends and I downloaded the app right then and there and started inviting groups of four (and sometimes five) girls to chat with us.
Within ten minutes, we had gotten a match with a group of four girls who had all attended Ivy League schools on the east coast. All four of us are proud alumni of Big Ten institutions, so I wasn’t exactly sure this was going to be a good fit. Much to my surprise, we were hitting it off in the group chat and decided to set a date for 9 o’clock on Tuesday. I know what you’re thinking — why Tuesday, and why so late? I honestly couldn’t tell you. A hearty merlot will make you do things you didn’t know you were capable of.
So we set the date for Tuesday night, and we obviously met up at a bar down the street from the meetup spot for a few beers beforehand. Outwardly, my three friends and I all seemed to be on the same page in regards to what this group date meant. This would be a good story, regardless of the outcome. Just keep it loose. I don’t think any of us really expected that we would hook up with these chicks, just maybe walking away with a number or two and going home by 11.
We arrived fifteen minutes late because we accidentally ordered a third round of Two Hearteds at the first spot, and the four girls already had a table in the back corner. We shook hands with one another, my one buddy gave an awkward-ass out hug to the hottest girl in the group, and we ordered a bucket of beers.
Let me make it clear, I had no intention of starting the night out on a lie, but when I was asked about my job by one of them, I randomly blurted out that I was the manager of a hedge fund. At 24 years old. How they all believed that, I have no idea. Or maybe they knew I was lying and just didn’t care. I certainly didn’t.
In a stand-up special Chris Rock did a few years ago, he compares a lie like mine to women wearing push up bras. Every guy in the bar knows it’s a push bra, but they don’t really care at the end of the day. Lying in a bar is a lot like what I’d assume shooting heroin is like. One time is never enough, and the last time isn’t as the good as the next time.
Like this year’s Republican debates, everyone was sort of talking over each other, until about thirty minutes in when we all kind of paired off into separate conversations. I didn’t end up talking with the hottest one, but the girl I somehow organically began talking to was mousey-cute and she was laughing at my awful jokes. Things were going well.
I don’t even really know how it happened, but I ordered eight shots of tequila. As a hedge fund manager, I can afford to do this sort of thing. I hate shots. I suck at taking them. That goes double for tequila.
On this night, I laugh in the face of tequila. I make huge decisions regarding investments for multi-national corporations, for God’s sake.
I shot that well tequila back like a fifth year Alpha Phi who knows how to handle her liquor.
11 o’clock came and went. Aside from an older couple who was eating nachos at a table down the way, we were the only people left in the bar, and I could sense that the waitress wanted us to leave.
My buddy suggested we take the party back to his place, where we were hoping inhibitions would be thrown to the wind. They all respectfully declined. The real world would be beckoning in less than six hours. However, throughout this entire exchange where my friend had invited everyone back, me and this girl continued to talk. I offered to walk her home, just five or six blocks from the bar, and she agreed.
“I’ll catch up with you guys tomorrow,” I yelled as I walked with her towards her place. It was now 12:30 in the morning, and I knew it wasn’t going to happen. We got to her front door, I went in for a kiss, and she returned the volley.
Me: Would you want to get dinner with me this weekend?
Her: Yeah, I’m free after 7 on Friday.
Me: Perfect, I’ll text you Friday then and we can figure something out. See ya.
Score one for the good guys. I had a date lined up for Friday night. I am a modern day Casanova. I love my life. I fell asleep an hour later with sugar plums and fairies dancing in my head. Not a care in the world.
We return now to my cubicle, in real-time at 4:15 p.m., where I sit with a knot in my stomach and absolutely brutal body odor. I’ve only now just realized the pickle I’ve put myself in.
Didn’t even think about it until I sat down and looked at my schedule for the day. I had without a doubt, told this girl — this sweet, wonderfully attractive girl — that I was a hedge fund manager. I’m seeing her on Friday, and I’m going to come clean. There’s a good shot I’m getting a drink thrown in my face. I find a way to fuck things up for myself every. single. time. It’s like clockwork. Maybe this is a sign that the dating gods just don’t like me very much. Maybe it’s my brain not allowing me to settle down because it knows I’m too immature. Maybe I’m just an enormous tool. I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll be damned if living like this isn’t a blast. Do I regret lying to this really nice girl? Sort of. But even if she does dump that vodka-soda onto my head Friday night, I’m fairly confident that it won’t be the end of the world.
Maybe my New Year’s resolution should be to stop lying to girls. I laughed out loud typing that. Yeah right. Bring it on, 2016. I’m welcoming you with open arms. .
Image via YouTube