So where were we? Ah, right,I just had the pleasure of getting called by a different man’s name in *her apartment. Naturally, I followed this up with the only course of action I know: inviting her to an EDM concert with my friends.
Of course, leading up to this EDM concert (this time, Two Friends) remained a major elephant in the room: the “e” word. Rather than ignore this Lucy, I was impressed: she addressed it directly with a profuse apology, immediate drop of the sunglasses emoji, and insistence she take me out to dinner before the concert for a “fresh start.” After speaking with my local relationship consulting firm, The Roommate Group, the right course of action became clear: stop overthinking and go to dinner with her.
Dinner, naturally chosen at the FINEST Turkish restaurant in San Francisco (important note: if you do find yourself at a Turkish restaurant, don’t accidentally say “Bebek” in front of your date directly to the waitress), was quite the riveting adventure filled with an extremely important motif uncommon to my previous dating escapades: maturity. That’s right; we each simultaneously concluded the following: we had jumped into this “mini-ship” without the slightest inquiry of who the figure across the table actually was. Let’s take 1/3 of a step back, slow the roll, and strategically (obviously) learn about each other — an often overlooked tactic in the early stages of “seeing” someone. Honestly, I barely even knew what she did for a living (quick digression: I personally think it’s a great sign if you can make it to date ##3 without addressing theobvious first date questions like “where do you live?” or “what do you do?” — it means you can schmooze about practically anything, even the misplaced Buddha monk in the Turkish restaurant).
Quite the convo, amiright? We escalated early on, then decided to cool the jets, and here we were enjoying a riveting conversation about Hummus, mispronounced Turkish words, and most importantly, our aspirations, hopes & dreams for making it in this world (please use a Ryan Gosling or Emma Stone voice when you read that last line). After dinner ended (she PAIIIIIIID!!!!!!), two options presented themselves: get to the pregame early to hang with the bro-squad or spontaneously, hit up an old pastime: the hookah lounge. Hesitant at first, I conceded to the latter option and the rest was history.
Nonchalantly teleported into the heart of Tel Aviv, this Hookah lounge felt like a time machine, a vacation within a vacation destination, an oasis (literally) with the Mojave, and a caffeine infused “halftime” within an otherwise important evening. It was the move…
After daaaaa hookah, I easily could have called it a night — headed to ideally my place for the “home field advantage,” catch up on the ‘Flix, and potentially spark up the California medicine we all know & love. BUT. There was a DJ to attend, an event I was promised by “Central Command” (my roommate & chief social officer) would be one for the #yuppie ages. Uber diverted to the pregame: it was on.
Within 10 minutes of entry into the pregame filled with most of my inner Squandron, a homie came up to me and validated the decision to invite the chica out: “bro, she’s cool, man” (followed by either a “dude” or a “dawg” — this important observation is a blur). It was total vindication hearing this, and something quite honestly polar opposite from any remark friends of mine made about ye’ old ex. The thought crossed my mind, followed by a smile, fist-pumping to Galantis, and the icing on the cake, a mid-pregame “out-in-the-open” makeout session. Could this get any better? It did.
We pulled up to the club like ay-bay-bay, ay-bay-bay only to find a line reiminicent of Scorekeeper’s Bar & Grill on a game day weekend. After three unsuccessful attempts to cut and/or bribe the bouncer, we were stuck. Naturally, the only way to make it through the line was to pretend we were inside — vibes, dancing, flirting, a couple shoulder rubs — the like of which had never been seen before in marginally passive San Francisco.
Finally, we were inside. Finally, we could dance circa 2004 at my Bar Mitzvah. Finally, we were connecting…for real for real.
______ went down during at the club.
(you can fill in the blanks)
We left the RAGER on the earlier side mostly due to the inexcusable 120 degree weather inside the club (and multiple creepy dudes hitting on our other female friends — ah, the SF ratio).
The rest of the night I’m sure you can relate to — some diddling, some dabbling, some Lemongrass incense, soy candles, a hot shower, chocolate cherries, and sleep. Oh, beautiful, pensive, “does this mean we’re seeing each other, dating, or hooking up” sleep.
To Be Continued…
(Oh yeah, I’m going on one month of funemployment. The days are getting longer, the Trader Joe’s midday runs are becoming stale, and the bank account continues to thin. Is instability my stability? Chaos my serenity? Despite my often contrarian persona, the verdict is in: too much instability is extremely stressful. Do not try this at home.)