Sidebar: I promise I am, in fact, going somewhere with this.
Last year, I made a series of trips up to Fort Worth to visit my friend, Amy. Before A&M’s crushing loss to Arkansas in the Southwest Classic, we had no choice but to preemptively drown our sorrows in an all-night pub crawl in downtown Fort Worth.
At some point, we picked up a couple of gentlemanly gents—Brawn and Mitch. Brawn was an old pal of Amy’s, but Mitch was new to us.
At this point in the evening, I was already a couple of G&Ts in—a fact which, coupled with Mitch’s passing resemblance to a Rich I knew, led me to constantly call him the wrong name. I finally gave up and referred to him as Rich-Mitch for the rest of our acquaintance, both behind his back and to his face.
I don’t recall much from that night, as a later harrowing experience obscured much of my memory of it…
Sidebar: Let me just tell you, coming back home at the end of the night to find that your friend’s car has been towed, which subsequently entails a three hour excursion to some God-forsaken corner of DWF during which you must haggle with scrappy tow-yard employees, resulting in you not putting head to pillow until close to five AM when you have to wake up at eight is both an experience and slightly harrowing, if only because of the consequential sleep-deprivation.
I do recall that as we were leaving the bar, I recited Puck’s closing monologue from A Midsummer Night’s Dream for Rich-Mitch and the rest of the revelers on 3rd street. It seemed appropriate at the time.
Sidebar: What can I say, I get exponentially more geeky when I drink spirits. I present Exhibit A.
Anyway, Rich-Mitch was a cutie, and the next morning I tried in vain to lure him away from his law books and convince him to come to the Aggie game, or at least to the pre-game tailgate, since clearly that’s more important than the game itself—particularly if A&M’s playing.
Sidebar: Face it, you need some sort of numbing agent before watching the Ags play. Maybe in the future we should set up tents offering free nitrous oxide hits to fans…
Rich-Mitch it seemed was immune to my charms, and chose to spend the day cuddling with his torts textbook instead of getting his heart broken by Jerrod Johnson.
However, we would meet again a few weeks later when I journeyed back north for Halloween weekend.
I was super excited to debut my Halloween costume that year, which I felt was both creative and cute without veering into “I moonlight as a hooker on the weekends” territory.
Since my wedding dress had endured several party fouls the night before (sadly, it never fully recovered from its beer-baths, even after a trip to the dry cleaner’s), I pulled out my back-up costume, the ever-popular authentic (aka non-slutty) Catholic school girl.
Sidebar: Catholic school, K-12, baby! And the skirt still fits.
Unfortunately, my contacts also didn’t escape the previous night’s festivities unscathed (seriously, those med students know how to let lose after midterms are over), so I was rocking my glasses along with my plaid box-pleats. Keep in mind, these are what I wear to get myself from the bathroom to my bed without breaking something, and only make public appearences when absolutely necessary, such as when I’m out of contacts or have contracted pink eye.
We met up with Brawn and Rich-Mitch at a dive bar where we pretended that I have a modicum of hand-eye coordination and played a few rounds of darts and pool. Rich-Mitch kept a steady stream of Blue Moons in my hand, and flirted with me by the jukebox. I was secretly thrilled that someone still found me vaguely attractive in my specs (though maybe it wasn’t so much them on their own as opposed to their combination with knee socks that did it for him).
Eventually, we ended up at the Library, where in a magical, booze-soaked moment on the dancefloor, Rich-Mitch and I transitioned from slowly revolving on one spot to some 80s rock ballad to kissing. The kissing was surprisingly good, considering my glasses kept slipping down my nose. I was in bliss.
After last call, Brawn, Rich-Mitch, Amy and I giggled our way back to Rich-Mitch’s apartment, where he impressed me with facinating tales from law school, and showed me his fridge of Red Bull. There was a little more canoodling on the couch (strictly PG, I promise), and a sweet goodnight kiss. All in all, a satisfying weekend.
I had no delusions that this little daliance would blossom into a full-fledged relationship—we lived in different cities after all, but I was a little miffed when the only contact I had from Rich-Mitch the next week was the follwing text message:
Disclaimer: This occurred P.i.P.: Pre-iPhone, ergo I’m reconstructing this convo from memory, so I make no guaruntees to its factual accuracy, only sentimental truthiness.
Rich-Mitch: Hey, you were an English major, right?
Me: Yes…
Rich-Mitch: I’m working on this paper for my contracts class, and I was wondering if you could help me with some wording.
Me (sigh): Sure.
Rich-Mitch: (insert banal usage/spelling question here)
Me: (insert appropriate answer)
Rich-Mitch: Thanks babe :)
And I never heard from him again.
