As more and more of my friends begin to get married and engaged, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever take that walk down the aisle. Many of my friends joke that by the time I’m 30, I’ll be living alone with several cats in varying stages of obesity.
It’s true, this is indeed a probable outcome, especially after losing Marco — the one that got away:
It was March 2011, and I was on Spring Break with about 10 of my best friends.
I saw him from across the club and immediately felt my innate creepiness kick in. He was very tall and very European, sporting white linen pants and enough hair gel to lubricate the London Eye. He was a Pauly D doppelgänger in both skin tone and blowout, and as we made eye contact, I became painfully self-conscious about the tan I’d been building with my Jergen’s Daily Glow.
He strolled through the club, illuminating the way with his white cotton cargo pants. I knew I had to get his attention, if not only to ask why he needed so many pockets in his trousers. After taking inventory of my assets, I realized I was in Hollister jean shorts and a black v-neck. My spray tan hadn’t developed yet and I’d recently eaten calamari. Things weren’t looking good. I deduced at once that I’d have to take extra measures to overcome my less than desirable appearance. I looked around the club for some way to assert myself, when lo and behold, opportunity struck.
I noticed a pole smack dab to my right. I’d never used a “dancing” pole before, but my best friend in elementary school had a canopy bed and I’d taken a few twirls around her bedposts. Since I didn’t exactly have any complex routines in my pole-dancing repertoire, I decided my best bet was to get a running start and use my momentum to produce some sort of swinging/balancing act.
I ran and leaped up onto the pole, like a squirrel to a telephone wire. My thighs made an awful screeching noise as my bare skin rubbed against the metal. I was a train wreck in both sight and sound. The noise reminded me of how many other girls had probably done this same trick, and I cursed myself for not properly sanitizing the pole prior to my performance.
By some miracle, my idea worked. He took one look at my sweaty brow, juvenile ensemble and blotchy, pole burned legs and made his way across the club. I tried to calm my heavy asthmatic breathing before he was within earshot.
We began to talk. His accent was so strong that I couldn’t understand a word he said. I smiled and laughed a lot, tossing my mane to and fro in a Black Beauty-like fashion.
He told me that he played basketball for some college in New York, and although I seriously doubted this due to his apparent illiteracy, I became even more smitten. 10 minutes into our conversation, I began planning our life together — from where we’d vacation, to how I’d win over TV audiences as the fan favorite on my Basketball Wives debut.
We talked for what seemed like hours. It was wonderful. I wanted to reach up and break off a piece of his hair to bring home and put under my pillow. Finally, we parted ways and I skipped back to my hotel room, giddy as a silly school girl. I told all of my friends how I’d met the love of my life, and made a mental note to begin phase two of my daily self tanner regimen.
To be continued….