on having balls

Here's what I like about having a boyfriend. Besides the dates and the cuddling and the groping and the constant attention and knowing that at literally any moment of the day someone, somewhere, thinks my ass looks phenomenal in these pants.

Having a boyfriend gives you balls of steel. And/or, in some situations, just a complete lack of giving a shit in general. It's like Beyonce once so eloquently sang: "Tennis shoes, don't even need to buy a new dress. If you ain't there, ain't nobody else to impress."

And y'all, I love it. It is this benefit of being in a relationship that allowed me to walk into the local on Monday night -- after having consumed two bottles of wine with Megan on my front porch AND having walked down to the Midtown Market for some Hostess cupcakes, because it seemed time for dessert -- completely unconcerned with the fact that I was a.) in my gym shorts, b.) in a dirty gray hoodie, c.) rocking a sweaty pony tail and d.) probably smelling RIPE. I'm just guessing on that last one, but you look at A through C and see if you don't come to the same conclusion.

Not only did I go into the local looking ratty, I also talked to everyone in the joint while looking (and maybe probably definitely smelling ratty) including tons of boys whose opinions would've previously mattered to me. The piece de resistance of it all, really, was when I spotted a group of guys sitting at a table near us on the patio who appeared to all be named Brett or Garrett or something otherwise populated with double consonants and radiating prep. So I bet Megan that one or more of them was named Brett. Being a good sport, she bet that one or more was named Austin. And what did I do to settle the score? I walked my ratty ass right over to that table and said, "Hey. What are your names? We have a pool going."

Turns out, they were Matt, Matt and Ben. And then -- and the details are sketchy on this for me -- I somehow ended up talking to them about the line-up of this year's Beale Street Music Fest, and I think one or all of them might've been Poison fans, and I think I maybe offended their sensibilities by saying that I was not going to Music Fest this year because I did not possess a time machine. Or maybe Matt, Matt and Ben did not get the joke.

Either way, I didn't care. I just put my feet up on a chair, took a sip of my pint and texted Mr. Risky Business and said, "How is it that I'm at the local in my gym shorts?"

His response? "LOL. that's a good question. mmm. sexy."

cheers,
elizabeth