Last Saturday I found myself in that very 21st century of situations, where you see someone in public that you totally know from the internet, but not at all in real life, not even a little bit, not even an infinitesimal bit, no just NOT AT ALL.
Only this time, I'd been in the wine. And apparently when you've been in the wine, that little voice of reason that doesn't let you stop in the line for the ladies' bathroom to talk to someone you've never met is drowned out by some other drunken inner voice that is actively butchering the words to "The Yellow Rose of Texas," loudly and out of key between hiccups and giggles and with all that noise it just really is impossible to remember not to act like a crazy person.
So I did.
There I am, walking out of a stall toward the end of the Amy LaVere show at the Levitt Shell Saturday night, when I see a face that looks somewhat familiar. Why, you ask? Because it's Mr. Risky Business's current girlfriend.
Now let's be clear here: I do not know this girl from a ham sandwich. I don't know her name. I don't know a lick of anything about her, but what I do know is that I've seen her face floating there next to his in my Facebook news feed. And I know that right now is probably the wrong time to tell you that I'm just good with names and faces, really REALLY good, I always have been, long before Mark Zuckerburg came into the picture, but it's true. I see your face once and I'll know it pretty much forever and ever.
And let's be clear again: I have no reason to believe she has a flying clue who I am, either. (And in fact, she didn't. Not even by name. Is that the Awkward Train coming into the station? Always right on time, we should start setting our watches by that damn thing!) So there I am, in one of my signature out of body experiences, saying "This is going to sound crazy, but..." Why, oh dear sweet allah WHY, do I EVER think it is a good idea to even CONTINUE a sentence that starts that way!?
So I ask her if she is by chance Mr. RB's girlfriend, knowing full well that she is. And she looks at me (deserved?) like I am bat-shit, over the coop NUTS. And I just keep on a-going. I just recognize you from his Facebook picture, we've never met! He and I used to date!
Well not seriously, right? She says. At this point the entire midtown area may have felt some of my internal organs crawling up inside themselves. I mean dear sweet GAWD, y'all. What had I gotten myself into? I laughed nervously. "Oh, no! Just a few months. I think very highly of him!"
"Well I do, too." She said. (Legit, legit. But at this point I am concerned that I may be about to get cut. And with the amount of wine that I know I have consumed I would've just bled out right there on the nasty concrete public bathroom floor before anyone could even bring me a square of econo-roll TP.)
I really don't know what I said to wrap this whole horrific exchange up, but somehow I made my escape and by the very good humors of the universe I ran into Mr. RB himself on my way back up to our seats. I quickly informed him that his girlfriend was probably about to come back from the bathroom and tell him that she met a totally fucking crazy lady in line for the john.
And y'all, she would not be wrong.
cheers,
elizabeth
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