I love seeing my best friend from home. With a lifestyle so different from my own, whenever we get together, (especially when it’s on my turf here in NY), I make sure to really turn it on for her.
I tell her my stories, which she always deems “crazy”, and fill her in on all of my boy ~drama~ which she ‘s always endlessly amused by.
When she sent me this text a few weeks ago I couldn’t even act surprised. As harsh as it seems, she hardly meant this with true malicious intent. Her sending of this text was in response to me telling an always-colorful story, one that, this time, would probably cause me to respond similarly…
Let me back up, like wayy up.
It all started at The Jane hotel when I drunkenly fell into someone’s lap. A cute, tall guy in a blue shirt caught my eye and like the predator that I am, I set my sights and he was prey within the hour. In the true spirit of American heteronormative courtship, he texted me that next day and we made plans to go out within the week.
We had been seeing each other casually for a few weeks at the point where that text message was sent.
We’d had a few nights out together, flirtatious conversations via text message during the workday, and admittedly PG13-rated sleepovers by the time my best friend from home, (and text sender above) had come to visit.
As always, when she came I just had to fill her in on my most up to date ~status~. This trip, she had brought her boyfriend, who was a good sport and, for the most part, listened to my crazy stories and put up with my insane impressions with nothing more than a chuckle. That’ why, when he chimed in, we listened.
I was in the middle of acting out a few animated accounts of my most recent conquests when I came to the subject of both my at-the-time affections and inadvertently this blog post.
“Yeah, we met at a hotel lounge but like it was at least, like meeting organically, you know”, I said as I inhaled the sweet tree of the Gods and continued my stream of conscious styled anecdote.
“He’s SO TALL, always smells good, he’s an amazing kisser and he’s literally always down to go back to Brooklyn with me… and not even to like do it, like we literally haven’t even done it yet”, I explained to my half captive audience.
“I don’t know, it’s like, I don’t know if I like like him yet, but he’s definitely super nice and down which is nice”, I provided, losing interest in the story myself.
“WAIT!”, I exclaimed, throwing my phone to the ground and sitting upright on my girlfriend’s Astoria apartment hardwood floor.
“Guys, isn’t it so weird that’s he’s literally ALWAYS down to go back to Brooklyn with me, even though he knows he’s not gonna get some.. Like, honestly that’s so sketchy… What if he’s hiding drugs in my apartment? He’s gotta be like hiding drugs in my apartment or something”.
“He definitely is”, our other girlfriend chided.
Whether or not she was serious was unintelligible in her tone, but her agreement was enough to finally rouse a response from my friend’s boyfriend, the ONLY guy in the room, and thus, the only one whose insight really even meant anything at all…
“Or he just wants to be your boyfriend”, he said so nonchalantly it was like he said nothing at all.
Though the B word is a big, bad thing that men in NY don’t even consider, (it’s fuckbuddy to finacè in these parts), I totally knew what he meant.
What this sweet, patient and completely uncontrived soul was communicating was that maybe he accompanied me to Brooklyn out of affection, interest, or Hell, a desire to be with me… AROUND me.
The fact that I, in my most true, depth of thoughts, thought that it was a greater possibility that a guy was hiding drugs in my apartment than that he could actually, perhaps, maybe like me is something I find equal parts amusing and disconcerting and thus, here we are.
After he made that comment I laughed, brushed it off and re-packed the bowl.
(And then continued to think about the sentiment for the five consecutive days following)…
After my girlfriend had left for the weekend, I proceeded to life as normal. Wake up, kick ass, chug wine, repeat.
Tuesday, during another wonderful day spent in Microsoft excel, the boy who may or may not be hiding drugs in my apartment texted me to meet for a drink after work.
I agreed within a few minutes and saw “I’m looking forward to seeing you later” illuminate my screen just a few minutes following that.
This time, when we finished our bar drinks, there was no dance around what was happening next.
“How should we get to Brooklyn, should we take the M, Uber?”, I ask.
“Let’s just take the subway”, he asserted… “It’s not that late”.
He was right. It wasn’t that late.
On our way home I picked up a $12 bottle of Pinot, (because sometimes I just like to ball out you know??) and led us up the four flights of stairs into my East Williamsburg apartment.
From there we had, what I can only describe without divulging details, a night.
It was like the best of times and the worst of times all rolled up into one hilarious, ironic and completely circumstantial blanket, until we eventually fell asleep tangled as if we were one ourselves.
The next morning we did our usual lets-not-get-out-of-bed-yet song and dance, where he pulls me back under the covers repeatedly from 6:40 until 7:20 when I eventually wiggle out of his grasp to make us coffee strong enough get us on the 8:13 M train.
From there, he escorted me to work and then even more surprisingly to run the errands I had to run before work.
Again, without divulging, all I can provide for you here is that what happened the night before was definitely a make it or break it type of situation.
As always, I handled it the Haley way- with humor and antics so exaggerated they become the situation itself.
When I was explaining the situation of the night before, the way I handled it and the way it really all went down, is when my best friend sent me that text.
That, “I don’t know how boys even like you sometimes lol”, text.
Because, according to my account, which was a biased one to say the least, the over-the-top humorous and obnoxious way I handle and approach things should be enough to cause guys to not “like me”, right?
It’s funny to bystanders, and to my Twitter followers and whatever bored human beings read this blog, but in reality, my personality shouldn’t be funny or charming to a nice, normal, well-meaning guy.. right?
Isn’t that what she’s saying?
All I can say is that for the longest time I agreed. I agreed with the “I don’t know how guys like you sometimes” sentiment, and thus, I played to it.
“He’s gonna think I’m crazy anyway, so might as well play to my role”, I thought.
“There’s no way this guy is actually into me, he’s definitely hiding drugs in my apartment”, I genuinely believed.
But what if, in reality, that’s not the reality. What if my best friend, is wrong, and her boyfriend is right?
What if no one is hiding drugs in my apartment and sometimes my crazy is charming. And sometimes my humor is endearing. Or my impressions are impressive.
What if sometimes people see the wits behind the tits? And can find it possible to, under all of this crazy, obnoxious, arrogant, abrasive, selfish and childish CRAP see someone who they like enough to escort, sans drug mule motives, back to Brooklyn each night?
Because, I’ve turned my apartment upside down and trust me there are no drugs. I’d have done them by now. So I think the above is oddly the more likely story…