questionable decision story time

I was about to tell you that I'm going to start a new special feature on the blog called 'Questionable Decision Story Time.' But then it occurred to me that basically this 'special feature' would actually encompass every post on the entire blog, with maybe a handful of exceptions. Maybe. So instead, I'm just adding QDST to the ever-growing list of acronyms that I'm going to expect you to commit to memory for any and all future mentions. At some point I may need to create a reference guide.

Anywho. Guess what guys? It's QDST!

(When I read that, I totally hear a little theme song. Can you hear it? Hey kids, gather round! It's Questionable-Decision-STO-REE-TIIIME!)

I think that mostly I should know better than to leave my house after 10 p.m. on a weeknight, because I feel certain that those excursions can never end innocently. The laws of the universe simply do not allow for it. And I need to draw the distinction here between staying out past 10 p.m. and going out after 10 p.m. Because they're two totally different things. Because when it's 9:20 in the p.m. and I just woke up from a nap and I'm taking a shower and doing my hair and putting on shoes with HEELS, I have CLEARLY developed the delusion that I am still in college, or at least at a time in my life when alcohol before bed brought me deep, restful, brick-like sleep full of dreams about cheeseburgers, instead of turning me into a peri-menopausal sleep apnea patient for six hours of shallow breathing and hot flashes.

I digress.

I think the point of all that may have been that I was leaving the house, and that it was after 10 p.m. So let's pick back up there.

I drove over to Mr. November's apartment -- a new Midtown resident, or at least new in the time since we stopped dating -- and assisted him in changing a few light bulbs. The irony of that only really strikes me now, as I'm writing this, and I'd like to imagine that if some true literary work were ever written about my life, one of those big dense books filled with metaphors to be painstakingly analyzed by classrooms full of high school English students, that the changing of a light bulb would, in fact, be a key symbol that the students would be expected to interpret. (In case you're not following, both Mr. Barely Legal and Mr. Risky Business won favor by changing my light bulbs. Methinks the lady's standards are TOO LOW.)

Of course, my biographical literary masterpiece would probably be banned by the PTA, and later burned and bulldozed in the school parking lot for lewd and lascivious content. So probably nothing to worry about there.

Yes, right. Getting on with it. Promise.

So after the light bulb changing, we head down to the HiTone and settle in for two opening bands that can best be described as "Eh." Mostly we were catching up, anyway, which meant yelling at each other over the "Eh," except for those moments between "Eh" when there's no sound and you're still yelling.

It was good conversation. Mostly we talked about what we'd been up to since we stopped seeing each other, and mostly that involved recapping the people we'd been seeing since we stopped seeing each other. And at some point we diverted to the series of events that necessitated the stoppage of our seeing each other. And the thing about talking over music is that you've got to get really close to each other, and inevitably someone is all close to someone else's ear, and your face is all close to someone else's face, and maybe someone's hand touches someone's arm or back, and then you're closer and closer and closer, and finally I said, "Are you trying to kiss me?" And he said no, no he was not. But then we, um, did.

And y'all, he and I were never perfect for each other, but apparently this girl he dated after me just REALLY was not even on the same planet. And I think hanging out with me was a breath of fresh air. I think this mostly because he actually did say it, in not exactly those terms, but definitely more than once and with increasing levels of enthusiasm throughout the evening.

Some time around midnight, Star & Micey came on. They were playing a bunch of new stuff and the set was fabulous, and naturally I'm singing along. And he compliments me. And compliment really isn't quite a strong enough word for the effusive praise that was being showered upon my vocal cords. And though I have been known to sing a song or two, at this moment it felt particularly ridiculous because I am well aware of what drinking does to my ability to hear pitch AND I know that I've spent the last three hours screaming over rock music and I wouldn't be surprised if I sound like something between Pheobe Bouffay singing "Smelly Cat" and Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend's Wedding.

And then, after a disturbingly short set, Star & Micey were done. So we chatted with them for a minute, and then we left. And then we were at his apartment. And I was trying to be super good. Angelic good. I was looking up Star & Micey songs online to play for him. And really I was very, very good, super good, all the way up until we started kissing again. But hey -- Questionable Decision Story Time simply would not be complete without a questionable decision, now would it?

The thing is, I'm not looking to date anyone. Not for a good long time. Being single has done fabulous things for my mood, the bounce in my step, the size of my very pores. It's been amazing. I'm in no hurry to be attached to anyone again, and truthfully even if I were, realistically, it wouldn't be Mr. November. It's not that he's not completely fun to be around. (I think I may have mentioned that?) I really enjoy his company, but he's not husband material. And incidentally, I am totally okay with that, and more than okay with the idea of a casual fling. And hoping that he's on the same page.

I mean, the fling part? I think it's safe to say that is an idea he would get behind quite squarely. The casual part, though? We shall see.


cheers,
elizabeth