Last night, to regain a little perspective on the ex’s new love life, I dug down deep in the stack of pink-covered books hidden in the corner behind the bookshelf where the respectable books can’t see them for my copy of It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken. OK. Generally, this kind of book makes my eyes bleed. But a friend insisted after the called-off wedding when I stayed in bed for four days that I give this book a shot. It’s a little bit cheesy, but the repetition of all the reasons it’s over and why it’s a good thing and it should stay that way is soothing. And I vigorously outlined all the parts that reminded me what an ass he had been. Over three cups of the strong coffee I smuggled back from N’awlins. Not my ideal way to spend an evening, but it helped with perspective.
Because I am trying to force myself to be fully emotionally bipolar at all times for your reading pleasure, here’s a rundown on my own, non-ex-related, so-called love life of late.
On my trip to San Francisco last month, in addition to devouring frites and going on the loveliest shopping spree with Green (where I bought rosewater, candy delicacies, and an Italian leather journal no less), I kind of…. um…. met someone.
It happened precisely the way these things never happen to me. I was bumming around the Mission District in search of a giant burrito the size of my forearm (which I definitely found), and while finishing it up, I decided to scan the Crackberry for other things to do in the neighborhood. An off-the-map locals bar popped up that looked ideal for happy hour, and just so happened to be a block and a half from the taqueria. Away I went, probably with cilantro still in my teeth.
When I walked in, I promptly remembered that I am no good at talking to strangers in bars, and bellied up to make some small talk with the bartender and grab a bourbon. Then, being the adventuress that I am, I hopped back on the Crackberry and tried to look busy instead of socially awkward. A few minutes go by, and the bar stool next to mine fills up. I glance over- polo shirt, cargo shorts, leather wrist cuff… and ring on left hand. But of the funky sterling silver twisty variety and not very formal looking … hmmm.
Both of us continued the texting and web surfing bit for fifteen or twenty minutes until we were bumped, literally. The pool table was about two feet behind us and apparently we got in the way of the shot. Which meant we had pull our stools closer together. I made some silly comment about the dual dueling phones and we made polite introductions. From Canada, in town for a month visiting friends, who were supposed to come to the bar but bailed. The Canadian was peeved in a very cute way. I mentioned being in town on business and we started chatting.
One thing led to another, and two hours later we were still at the bar, talking about cities, and the bartender, and politics, taking turns saving seats to go outside and smoke, and swapping whose turn it was to buy the next round. I asked if the Canadian wanted another and the reply? “No, I’d rather get out of here before I’m drunk. Which way are you headed?” We strolled out and took the long way back to the BART in the dusk still rambling on and finding oddly that we had a lot in common, including fairly ugly break-ups in the last year (this girl’s thought? score!– I had hoped I was right about the ring).
The Canadian mentioned that the local friends, a lesbian couple, were homebodies and so travelling solo had become the norm. I mentioned a reservation for one at Foreign Cinema for great food the next night. And that it could probably easily become a reservation for two. Numbers were exchanged, and I promised to call or text if I could get a table for two with the address and time.
And dear readers….. I did. More to come on the continuing saga…