Skyscrapers and Coat Closets
My joy runneth over. I am beaming. I glow. I love. Oh the bliss of landing in Crush City. Aside from the excessive calorie burning (and just in time for Memorial Day mandatory swimsuit attire) that comes with spending time in the hyperactive climate, Crush City also affords the still-single-in-a-sea-of-doubles a boost of fresh, optimistic energy. Joy. Rapture. Delight.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I must update you. You heard about the hand-shake first date. Whatever. It seems my dating shoes were a bit rusty. But alas, I rebounded and the relationship was salvaged from an early defeat. Then Shop Girl and I had our party, which I must say was a stunning success. If I must say so, we looked smashing in our party skirts and beautiful skyscrapers. (I may have parties every weekend just so I can wear sexy heels without the agony of actually having to walk somewhere. It's genius.) And most importantly, the boy came to the party. Alone. No friends in tow. No safety net. He just came. (Isn't that sweet/impressive to show such confidence right out of the gate? Had it been the other way around, I'd have taken a posse of girls to 'protect' me from the would-be rejection from the crush in question, essentially making me unapproachable. Note to self: posses are for kindergarten field trips.)

He was cute, kind, attentive and fun. He paid me just the right amount of attention. He was chatty enough with strangers and yet not so much that you thought there was a politician at our fête. And, most importantly, he impressed everyone to the extent that they all came up to me to tell me how cute/fun/sweet/hot/awesome/perfect he was. Hurrah! Score one for the single girl. I rock.

But then he disappeared. I noticed his absence around midnight. Panicking that he'd dissed me, my imagination ran wild with the what ifs. What if he found my Tucks moisture pads in the bathroom? What if he fell in love with that plain-evil neighbor girl who eats chocolate while sunbathing her lanky limbs in a teeny tiny string bikini? What if he saw my "don't forget your deo" sticky note reminder? What if he found my granny panties? What if my music was too dorky? My house too girly? My armpits too smelly? Tragedy. Drama. Trauma. In need of counseling, I kidnapped Shop Girl to the coat closet to confer. (Please, if you will picture the two of us teetering in our skyscrapers smushed in between far too many coats, aggressively whispering about my romantic future.) Luckily, she had an answer. It seemed that someone had been in her room with the door locked for over 40 minutes. She'd been monitoring the situation in between flirtations with the banker and the rocker. After quick cross-analysis of crush sitings, it was quite obvious that... dun, dun, dun, dun ... The love of my life was a drug dealer/doer/whatever.

To be continued...

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