Page 8 of One Hotlanta Night
“Hope not, ’cause there ain’t anything that can keep these curls tamed.” I bounce my hair with my hand like the girl inPeanuts.
“Free dance lessons until 10, and complimentary shots for those ‘livin’ la vida loca’. Seriously, what do you think?” she continues. “This sounds fun! You are more than deserving of a break right now.” She levels me with a look at my raised eyebrows.
“Claire—”
“Chica, you’ve been doing so well.” I smile at the nickname she bestowed upon me from day one. I don’t know why her praise means so much to me, but it does. Probably because it feels like forever since my mom’s been proud of me.
“But seriously, babe, it’s been three months.Months, girlie! That’s a record!” She laughs as I glare at her. She’s right. But that’s not the point. “You haven’t so much as breathed in a dude’s direction. No matter how much they’ve tried breathing down your neck.”
I wince. Ugh. Last week one of our regulars decided to shoot his shot with me after learning I was now single. Guess he took that to mean I was interested as well, since he proceeded tomonopolize my shift at the bar, going on and on about his cushy corporate job and how he planned to make his first million, blah, blah, blah.
As if that would impress me. There’s more to life than money.
He totally didn’t read the signs I was giving him. I mean, I do have to be polite and look interested. It’s my job after all. But my Northern side broke through when he snuck up behind me while I was taking heavy racks of beer mugs around the corner of the bar. He slithered in my ear that I should let him take me out. I didn’t give him a chance to clarify whether that was out to dinner or to his bed, because as I turned, the racks “slipped” from my hands—oops—and fell directly on his feet.
All three racks. Last I heard he has three broken toes.What a shame.
We’d probably have a bigger issue on our hands if it weren’t for Officer Wright who had stopped in to pick up his regular dinner of half a chicken, side of mac and cheese, and mashed potatoes (extra gravy). He chuckled as he helped the guy up, then gave him a stern talking-to and warned him off coming back again.
Some things in the South drive me crazy, but I’ll take his level of chivalry any day.
“We don’t have to pick up any guys. It’s not like you’ve ever needed them on the dance floor anyway. But if you happened to find some sweet young thang to distract yourself with…” She fans her face and flutters her eyelashes dramatically. “I’m just saying. You’ve done your celibacy penance, or whatever this is. It’s okay to get back out there, find someone fun for the night.”
I lift a brow at her. Claire’s supposed to be the responsible one, and she’s encouraging me to have a one-night stand? I mean, yeah, that’s never been a big deal to me, but I’m surprised to hear the words from her mouth.
None of my past encounters have caused regret, but I also took them for what they were at face value, whether it was arelationship or just a good time. That never stopped people from commenting on it though. As if they should have a say in my love life.
As much as I tried to pretend the whispers and snide remarks didn’t bother me, they did. At one point, even my own mother assumed I was sleeping with every guy I went on a date with. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t the truth; what hurt more was the way she said it, her judgment, her criticism. Wasn’t she the one who told me to play the field? A proud member of the sexual revolution, free love and all that?
Her comments stung for sure, but also because it felt like just one more way I’d failed to meet her expectations. Our relationship has been cracked for years, and I’m not sure we’ll ever find our way back to something healthy.
Last time I’d called, I thought she’d be happy when I told her that Trent and I were through for good this time. She never was all that crazy about him anyway. Instead, she implied that it was one more example of lack of stability in my life. Something else I’d failed at.
With her, the list just keeps getting longer, the criticisms just keep coming, so we haven’t talked in weeks. It hurts, but giving myself time away from her opinions, along with space to figure myself out, has helped.
I might be young, but it feels like I’ve lived a lifetime these past few years. Years that hadn’t turned out the way I wanted them to. A gap year stretched into three years after that fateful car wreck and subsequent fibro diagnosis. If I hadn’t walked into The Pork Belly that day and found Claire, I’m not sure where I’d be.
My old friends are still learning the novelties of drinking, dating, and figuring out adult shit. Meanwhile, I’ve been doing that since I was seventeen and can testify it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
But they’re getting ready to graduate, while I’m just now trying to figure out if I can handle college classes on top of a fifty-hour work week. If my body can handle it, managing the pain that never quite goes away.
Milestones of adulthood are passing me by and I can’t catch up.
No degree, no profession, and now, no man. Definitely didn’t see my life going this way at twenty-one.
“Chica.” She takes my hand. “You’ve had some time alone. And you survived.” She winks at me while giving my hand a squeeze. “I’m not talking about going out and marrying the first guy you see.” We both laugh. As if!
“But if you’re ready to consider dating again, that’s okay. And if you aren’t, that’s okay too. I’m telling you what I think you know already in your heart, but won’t admit it to yourself. So I’m doing it for you.”
This. This is why Claire is so special to me. She’s not afraid to tell me the truth, and she always wants what’s best for me. I’ve never had a friend care so much.
“I…” I glance down where she’s squeezing my hand like a gentle hug. “I don’t know if I’m ready. It’s not just about hookups. My heart’s not ready to get involved again.”
You could say I’ve used this new season of singlehood to work on myself. Therapy’s too expensive, so I’ve been embracing Mary J. Blige’s “Family Affair” and working out all my issues on the dance floor. Going out andnotlooking for a boy toy was challenging at first. Taming down the flirt-o-meter that comes to me as naturally as breathing has been a learning experience.
Instead, I’ve found that each club has girls like me, girls who just wanna have fun. Women who also want to shake, shimmy, and forget about the drama for a while. The laughter and endorphin rush keeps me from giving into temptation. That I don’t actually need a guy on my arm to feel good about myself.Even though my problems come back in the morning along with my coffee, I’m beginning to like this version of me.
A version that feels more comfortable in my skin. That doesn’t need a man to feel better about herself. That feels a little bit stronger. That doesn’t need to put up with passive-aggressive remarks and backhanded criticisms.
