A whole group of my friends went out last night for a birthday celebration. In keeping with New Year’s Resolution #1, I wore a silky brown criss-cross t-shirt, my DKNY sweater, the Gap jeans that I had tailored, and my witchy Danskos. I blew my hair dry and even put on some lipstick.
I arrived a little late for dinner because my pit bulls had been piled on top of me on the couch, and that’s a pretty pleasant state to be in. There was a space at the table across from an apparently single male in my age bracket. He was cute, had a little beefy-Matt Damon thing going. We chatted over our meal. We discovered we had the same taste in TV shows. He mentioned struggling to come out on Friday nights these days because of the two dogs that he had at home who really enjoyed cuddling.
The whole gang moved to a bar, and dude and I sat together, still conversing easily. He invited me to his Superbowl party.
It got late. Finally, he put on his jacket, looked me in the eyes, and said, “So…”
And I’ll tell you, nothing makes you feel like Marla Hooch like when the guy you’ve been flirting with all night asks if your beautiful, thin friend is single.