Last Friday night my girlfriend Kerstin and I went out on the town. I love going out with her, she is always game for anything, and is of the few girlfriends who don't flake out at the last minute. A true friend.
Anyway, we went to Stella's in Uptown for some drinks, had a bit of food, and enjoyed the roof tap patio despite the stiff breeze. Now Stella's is across the street from a new favorite place of ours called Cowboy Slim's. It's not swanky, it certainly isn't country (everyone there is too damn pretty and far too trendy for it top be country) It's just a new hip hot spot where all the popped-collars, Ed Hardy wearing fools go, along with the tiny skirts and hair-flipping bimbos. Keep in mind, Kerstin and I don't fall into either category so I'm not sure why we go to this place. But we always have fun when we do!
Boys buy us drinks, we laugh A LOT, plus it's good people watching. Watch people get hit on, shot down, mingle and scope the crowd. It's fun.
Now this bar has one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen working there. He is so gorgeous! And the first time we went, I had just enough beer in me to tell him so. In fact I told him he was young-Marlon-Brando-handsome. He seemed genuinely touched as he rubbed my shoulder and said thank you. (And yes, I thought about never washing that shirt again.) I had to tell him. I had no other motive in mind, I just had to say it.
Well, he certainly remembers me. I mean, who wouldn't? Especially when you're at work and someone tells you they look like a stunning movie star from old Hollywood. And as of last Friday night he really won't forget me. Or perhaps it's more like I really won't forget him.
Kerstin and I are at the bar hanging with some boys (and I say boys because the oldest was 26, they were out celebrating their friend's engagement, but mostly I say it because I was called a pre-cougar. A puma, if you will. Look it up, if you don't catch the reference.) They are buying us drinks and we all are having a grand time. Near the end of the night one of them asks me to dance. We are on the dance floor, he's spinning me, we're flirting. And suddenly I'm on the floor.
I go ass over tea-kettle (well not really, but that phrase certainly brings an image to your head) and fall flat on my right hip. The floor was wet, I had on super cute, no traction shoes and the boy spun me and down I go.
Fine. We all fall in bars. It's a little embarrassing. But you get up, laugh it off and go on with the night.
Not me. Not this night. Not this fall.
Because who picks me up off the floor? My beautiful Marlon Brando bartender. Yep, my dreamy hunk from Cowboy Slim's picks up my broken self, asks if I'm OK, then proceeds to mop up the wet whatever that I fell on and in.
Nothing embarrasses me. I can usually shake embarrassing things off fairly quickly. Not this time. I was humiliated. Just because some handsome man that I am lusting over was nice enough to pick me up when I fell. I've never been so shocked at something I had done that I hadn't had a quick remark to follow it. Soon after it was bar close. And Kerstin and I went home.
But I have not stopped thinking about it. I have told many people, it's funny. And many have responded with a "That was your chance!" "You should have jumped on the opportunity!" "Go back and ask him out!" But I just, well I don't know. He's so pretty. He's so out of my league.
Why don't we ever just go for it? We as men and women have this odd and unknowable boundary of when and where and how to ask someone out. The worst they are going to say is no and nothing is hurt but a little bit of your pride. I preach this stuff all the time but sometimes when faced with the perfect chance to do it, I can't. Well, not all the time. Just this one. With the falling and the one too many, and the cute cute boy who picked me up who knows I think he's so cute. It's just too much.
But it sure is funny. I still get an image of me falling and I giggle. People falling is funny.