Monday, July 27, 2009

The Crawl

I was a big girl. I went over to The Frat House (where The Athlete lives with a few of his friends) all by myself. The house was considered stop #1 in the nine bar sequence. When I got there, The Athlete gave me a hug. “You look much better than me,” he said, gesturing to his golf shirt (which smelled like the Salvation Army he bought it at) and his pleated, plaid golf pants.

I was introduced to the other guests. He brought me beer. We did a shot. I was given a scorecard. And we walked to the first bar.

The walk to the bar was one of my favorite parts of the evening. We were a bit ahead of everyone else. Talking about...stuff. Work. His family. Weddings we’ve been in. He apologized for not meeting me out at the bar the night before (I went out with Anna and Meg and had sent him a quick text to invite him). I promised that it was no big deal.

The first bar was an outside deck. I had my drink. And a shot. Stood around, doing the talking thing. Started getting drunk.

The second bar was a sports bar. My partner bought me my drink. (And a shot? This is hazy.) The Athlete disappeared for a while – “I’m going to get some carbs.”

Meg, Meg’s friend and Anna showed up, bringing me my carbs – a granola bar – and also a pair of knee high argyle socks. Which, I was later told by one of The Athlete’s friends – were hot. I had Anna put the socks on me while I was sitting on a barstool chair. I was already drunk. (Classy.) So was most of the rest of our group. (Made me feel better.)

The Athlete came back. I introduced him to my girls. I was eating my granola bar. I may or may not have fed him a piece of it. (I did.)

Third bar. One that I’d gone to for crazy ex-friend April’s birthday a long time ago. Very little interaction with The Athlete, but I wasn’t overly concerned. I got to know a few of his friends a little better. Watched Meg act wild, like always. Took pictures. Laughed a lot.

Fourth bar. HUGE dive.
I didn’t see a lot of The Athlete here, either. Mostly because the bar was a glorified hallway and I was further inside than he was. Meg made out with one of the guys at the party at bar #4. (I turned away because there are some things a girl just doesn’t need to see.) And then she and he proceeded to climb onto bikes chained to a parking meter and take the most hilarious series of pictures the world has ever seen.

Side note: here is where I really failed. You got bonus points for making out with someone (if they weren’t your significant other) at a bar. I did not advertise my services. Stupid.

Fifth bar. Sports bar for the college kid. Anna hates the place. Meg was on the vessel end of two body shots – one taken by her friend, the other taken by the kind gentleman who she made out with earlier in the evening. Classy. Anna was pissy because Meg’s make out partner bit her hand. It kind of ruined the experience at that bar, honestly.

Sixth bar. A little less bar, a little more club. I’m fairly certain that this bar was where a photo of me licking The Athlete’s face was taken. So, yeah. That is all I have to say about this location.

Seventh bar. We were running late on time, so we cancelled this stop (mostly because it is sort of snobby and we knew we’d never be able to get in and make it to our final destination, too).

Between bar six and bar eight. Walked out with The Athlete. Anna and Meg were just ahead of us. All of a sudden, there is a cab. “Get in,” he said. I got in. And waved while Anna and Meg stared at me.

I never do anything unexpected.

So they were a little surprised.

“I just left my ride. How am I going to get home?” “Stay over,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”

Eighth bar. Tiny and smoky and with a karaoke machine. We milled about at the back, leaning up against the sole pool table. “Go over there and talk with him,” his friend Nick encouraged. “That girl is his cousin. His COUSIN. Seriously. Go over there.” (I already knew that she was his cousin.)

At some point, we come across a large brick of chalk. For the pool table. And for some reason I rub my hands on it. And press my hands against The Athlete’s ass. The handprints were perfect. I was paid back with a single handprint on my ass. There was a photo taken of our asses. I wish I had it on my camera.

We did a shot at some point. Someone sang karaoke. The lights went up. We walked towards home. The Athlete and I, again, were up a distance from everyone else. I, again, found it to be glorious. I found it equally glorious to grab his arm (which I did frequently) as I pretended to be afraid that he was going to walk into things. Or maybe I honestly was. Sort of hard to tell. I’d had plenty to drink.

Back at the house. Someone started a fire in the backyard. The Athlete pulled me out there with his cousin (who apparently he’s really tight with) and a few others. He was talking about loving country music and, when asked how he got into it, he winced. Said a girl’s name. He leaned to me and mentioned that he “had a mulligan a few years ago.” He was engaged. I already knew that.

We went back inside. He talked more with his cousin. I tried not to be entirely socially awkward. I helped his friend Nick tally up his scorecard. "Get over there!" Nick told me again. "He is here without a girl. You are here without a guy. Go. Over. There." I laughed at the kid singing karaoke. I sat on the arm of the couch when he called me over.

The rest of the night was more karaoke. Give his friends alcohol and a karaoke machine and they’ll be happy forever. Seriously. It was quite hilarious. I refused to sing. (When he asked why – I told him it was because my cousin Danielle soaked up all of the talent in that category.) There was more cousin speak. (Seriously. That girl monopolized a lot of his time. But I am not criticizing her. Just pointing it out.)

At one point I said that I was leaving. Walked out the front door. Came back in. “I think I want to wait another half-hour to drive.”

At some point, I was sitting on The Athlete’s friend’s lap. The friend who made out with my sister earlier in the night. It was a friendly lap sitting. But probably not the smartest thing to do. I doubt The Athlete remembers. And his cousin’s friend had her head on his shoulder, anyhow. We were just a floppy mess of drunkards.

I left just before 5. He’d just fallen asleep (Or passed out. Or whatever.) on the couch. He doesn’t snore. I gave his leg a squeeze as I walked towards the door.

On Sunday morning, he sent me the following text message:
“Thank you for coming out. was fun hanging out with you!”

I had an amazing time.

He's still leaving on Thursday.


Anonymous said...

Awesome, Awesome, Awesome blog!!!!!

my life is brilliant said...

Wow. What a night!

Funny how Nick kept trying to get you to go by The Athlete. That's a good sign!

OC said...

Loved this! Glad you had a great time! Will you see him again before he leaves?

Mrs. Architect said...

Sounds like the night was flawless and fabulous!

Stace said...

You had me laughing out loud. Great stuff. I hope you had a great time!

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