I Wore My Pedometer to the Club and Took 10,000 Steps in the Name of Love

My company participates in this program where we get paid little mini-bonuses for wearing work-sponsored pedometers and taking steps. Something about having healthy, active employees and saving on insurance costs? IDK, but I love free money – so I have of course been wearing it on the regular and taking all kinds of superfluous steps whenever possible because in the back of my mind I’m always like, Dude, you can wait for a parking spot that’s twenty feet closer to the Cheesecake Factory Vitamin Shoppe, or you can take the crappy space, burn some calories, and make a extra buck while you’re at it. WHAT’S IT GONNA BE, FATTY?

(Then I cancel that last thought out because calling myself fat is a result of fear-based thinking, and I’m so over fear-based thinking, and have I mentioned that I’m super fit?)

Anyway. This past Saturday, I strapped on my pedometer along with my favorite pair of Banana Republic khakis and attended a charity event at my alma mater thrown by my one of my best friends.

It was freakin’ awesome for three reasons.

  1. I love supporting good causes – especially when supporting a good cause involves going back to the school where I lost my virginity, thereby leading me into a whole self-reflective, forgiving, aware-of-my-incredible-growth-over-the-past-seven-years space. (So basically I love supporting good causes when I get to remove the cause itself from the equation and make the experience all about me… This could be the mark of a horrible person, but I’m not going to go down that road.)
  2. There was a MASHED PO-TINI BAR. This involves martini glasses, mashed potatoes, and a heart-unhealthy selection of toppings (sour cream, bacon, cheese, chili, shame, etc.) – like a salad bar only more delicious and with a corny pun. Mashed po-tinis are amazing, and can we make them a thing like, immediately? #mashedpotini.
  3. It was a loving, healing, and just plain ol’ fun time. I saw old college friends, danced to big band music, and witnessed an a cappella group sing the best song ever – “Always Be My Baby” by Mariah Carey, obviously – which was cosmically perfect because it just so happens that we’re about to have a cicada season in Connecticut.

If you don’t know about cicadas, then (one) I envy you, and (two) they are loud, gross-looking bugs that only emerge every 17 years and wreak havoc for two weeks until they die again.

The last time we had cicadas, I was eight years old. It was 1996 and I was obsessed with Mariah’s Daydream album. I distinctly remember watching the video for “Always Be My Baby” and wondering where all the cicadas were in the woodsy, marshy area she seemed to be so comfortably frolicking in. (I was pretty much an eight-year-old version of the Wendy’s “Wheeere’s the beef?” lady, except I was all “Wheeere’re the cicadas?!”)

So for the past week, in anticipation of the locust-like creatures, I’ve been going on nightly after-dinner walks reflecting on my early years and listening to “Always Be My Baby” while paying honor to my inner child. So when the a cappella group randomly chose to sing that song of ALL songs on Saturday, it was one of those incredible moments that would seem like no big deal to most people but to me was most definitely God being all like, “Whassup Nic?

In short, this event made me feel all kinds of love. And I’ve been feeling all kinds of love all the time lately. And when I’m feeling all kinds of love, I kind of just want to dance. So I did something crazy on my way home that night – I stopped at a gay club.


I sat in the parking lot for two minutes before going in, telling myself that I was there for one reason only: to shake my groove thang. No expectations, no need to seek validation from anyone, no irrational ego-based fears of being judged – just me standing – make that dancing – in my truth.

And I did it! I held it down on the floor song after song, having my very own self-loving private party – except totally in public. It was kind of the best thing ever.

Interestingly enough, it seemed that my whole loving energy field actually drew people to me, most of whom I shared only a brief moment or two with until deciding that I wanted to keep rocking out on my own.

Then there was this one handsome gentleman who kept making his way back to me despite my noncommittal demeanor towards dance floor location. I finally just embraced his energy and we communicated in this crazy, wordless way that I kind of knew was probably only sexual on his part. Still, I was willing to overlook it in an effort to view him as the innocent child that he once was (this is a fun game I’ve been playing with everyone I meet lately… it’s especially effective with mean people). My mind wandered, and I found myself wondering where he was during the 1996 cicada invasion.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he tried to kiss me. While the old Nic would have probably been like “Scooore! Maybe we can get married?” I decided to be the new Nic in this moment. [KEY CHANGE ALERT!]

I politely turned my head, coughed laughed, and yelled to him that I was “just here to dance, but you’re really cute!”

It was the truth. I wasn’t there to make out with random dudes; I was just there to dance – and, in a broader sense, to love myself.

And so that’s what I did – step by step, one step at a time, 10,000 pedometer-counted times. (Cha-ching!)

Screen shot 2013-05-07 at 6.31.55 AM

*This is a photo I found on a bar’s website from many years ago. Look at baby Nic being all intense and dance-y! Also, the year was 2010. Do you love how warped my sense of time is?


My Real-Life Version of ABC’s Hit Primetime Drama Nashville 

Y’all. (And I do mean y’all.)

Can we talk about how obsessed I am with the new ABC drama Nashville after having seen just two episodes?

Yes? OK, good, because this ex-Nashville resident is hooked. (Yes, I refer to myself as an ex-Nashville resident even though I only lived there for a single summer.)

This brilliant series has inspired me to reflect on the real-life version of the show that I lived through just a year and a half ago.

For anyone who wasn’t reading during that era of Keychanges – here’s what went down:

This blog was actually created in Nashville after I moved there for a summer of meetings with various music publishers to explore a potential career as a country songwriter.

After being validated by music executives in the sense that I was great but not great enough to cut the forty-thousand-aspiring-songwriters-trying-to-make-it-in-Nashville line, I got all depressed and started Keychanges (does the name make more sense now?) as a way to work through the pain of being told that I’d have to pay actual dues in the music business.

(Fun fact: to create a vague sense of anonymity, I originally added a “K” to my name and blogged under the incredibly ineffective pseudonym Nick. Clearly, that desire for anonymity was never very strong, and has since gone out the window entirely — but Nick kind of lingers on in other areas of my life. In fact, the other day I had an IM conversation with a coworker about the spelling of my name and I was all like, “You know, I was just thinking about how stressful it’s going to be to pick out what my engagement party banner will say, because of all of the potential spellings of my name! Like, do I want ‘Congratulations _____ and Nic,’ or ‘…and Nick,’ or maybe, ‘…and Nicolas?'” and then she was like “Oh! Are you engaged?” and I was forced to respond with, “No… I’m totally single,” and then she thought it was hilarious but I was kind of offended by the fact that she thought I was the kind of person who would be engaged and choose to creepily withhold his fiancé’s identity from her by putting a blank where his name should be in a hypothetical engagement party banner scenario — but I didn’t say anything about it because I didn’t want to come off as confrontational and/or inadvertently create a hostile work environment.)

I realize that was the longest tangent ever, and I sincerely apologize. Back to Nashville.

After a few weeks in town, I started frequenting Nashville’s (two) gay bars and realized that I’m a total prude.

Then I realized that I had unintentionally led my new found blog audience to believe that I was a virgin, so I felt the need to clarify that I would totally sleep with an ER doctor if the opportunity presented itself.

Then I started watching Heroes on DVD and blogged about how Hayden Panettiere almost makes me feel like a straight man. (Freakin’ crazy because that’s now happening again on Nashville… Full circle, anyone?)

Then I read a few books and reviewed them, which led to the revelation that I’m basically just a Mormon gal trying to find love in the Big Apple.

Then I got hit on by a drunk guy fake-named Charley and tried to quell the awkwardness by telling him a totally false, convoluted story about how I’m Jewish and sober and spent two months on a kibbutz in Isreal and couldn’t sleep with Charley because I have a Jewish boyfriend, and the whole situation somehow led to the discovery that maybe I didn’t hate New York after all.

Then I left Nashville but couldn’t find a new apartment in the city, so I lived with my mom for a month and had a severe emotional meltdown after finding a box of condoms under the bathroom sink.

Wow. Where the hell was I during the series development stages of Nashville?

Because this is all pure gold.


Food, Football, and Love

Every time I write an angsty rant about why men suck, I always question the decision later. Like, if only I had watched He’s Just Not That Into You for the thirty-seventh time while inhaling frozen chicken wings and a case of light beer before opening my laptop, last week’s post could have probably been avoided entirely.

But then again, it was met with an overwhelmingly positive response from women far and wide — so at least my anger was able to cultivate some kind of sisterhood united against noncommittal a-holes. That’s always good.

In any case, I’d like to bring some positivity back up in here by presenting you with a photograph of a mural-sized rendering of the tattoo I’m strongly considering getting inked between my shoulder blades:

                                           This piece of wood just gets me.

Or, if we want to be a bit more specific — a combination of:

  • two hot dogs,
  • a cheeseburger,
  • three grilled shrimp skewers,
  • approximately fourteen steak tips,
  • eight pieces of marinated pork,
  • a quarter of a rack of ribs,
  • probably a bag of chips,
  • too many Coors Lights to tally up, and
  • another cheeseburger

is love.

Because that’s what I ate on Sunday throughout the course of tailgating and attending the Patriots home opener, and it was definitely love in its purest form. And/or its most obese form — which is fine, because I’m totally over those body image issues, Lou. Because really, unlike a gay bar, Gillette Stadium is something of a judgment-free zone.

I don’t know what it says about the world that I’ve come to associate gay men with rejection and ostracization while I associate NFL games with love and acceptance, but the irony is not lost on me.

                                     I’ll take “fat” over “douche bag” any day.

As far as the game itself, we couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over it.

And yeah, as far as the men I’ve dated this summer, they couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over that, too. Because — when it comes to both dating and football — it’s early.

And there’s always next week.


Tragedy Strikes During My Fantasy Football Draft

So, with the exception of last week’s glorified Instagram posting, it just occurred to me that it has been two full weeks since my last real post. Gasp!

Where has the time gone?

Actually, I can answer that question:

  • One weekend at a casino filled with a drunken Zac Brown Band concert and modest gambling
  • Four gay bar debaucheries (just like the olden days of Keychanges)
  • My fantasy football draft, which turned into a major debacle when I lost my Internet connection
  • Lots of feelings-eating (as per usual)
  • Mad Men and several more Don Draper fantasies
  • Work (lest I forget)

And suddenly it’s fall.

If you don’t know me in real life, you may be shocked to discover that the same emotionally needy gay man who once assaulted a wine bottle out of husband-less frustration happens to be a fantasy football enthusiast (with a title under his belt, no less) and a country music fan, but both facts are indeed true.

Being a gay fantasy football team owner is kind of like being Peggy Olsen in Mad Men. That is to say (for those ignorant to my new television obsession) it is akin to being a female working professional in the male-dominated corporate world of 1960’s advertising — you must overcome prejudice, never let them see you cry, and deal with the fact that everyone is going to expect you to eventually get pregnant and start neglecting your duties. (Really, I should be so lucky to have that last problem.)

To give you some insight as to how I retain my identity while participating in heteronormative activities such as fantasy football, here is a fun little screen shot:

                                  And there goes my credibility.

Please note the Mariah Carey-inspired team name and Victoria’s Secret-approved helmet logo color scheme.

I had been preparing for this season’s draft for quite a few days leading up to the event, so you can imagine my utter rage when my WiFi decided to cut out during the seventh round. Thankfully, I had chosen most of my starters at that point, but when I finally got back in, I found that auto-pick had stocked my bench up with a number of unsavory back-ups.

Not. Okay.

Naturally, I proceeded to write a strongly worded e-mail to my building about how the free WiFi they offer is total crap and I demand a recount! (Kind of nonsensical, but I was pissed.)

The e-mail was actually pretty eloquent, but then I arrived at the final paragraph and couldn’t resist sharing with them that they had negatively impacted my fantasy season.

I now realize that this may have negated the validity of my entire argument and made me come off as some kind of disgruntled frat boy who really needs to gain some life perspective. I might as well have also thrown in that their WiFi is so bad that it interferes with my porn-viewing habits and often renders the Domino’s Pizza Tracker inaccurate.

Needless to say, I’ve yet to receive a response.


I really want to elaborate on the five other bullet points above, but now I also really want to order Domino’s, so I’m torn.

Where would I even begin? The gay bar sagas involve Lou, whom I’ve reluctantly become friends with. The casino weekend involves car troubles and beer, which is always fun to write about. The feelings-eating is pretty much a feature of every other post of mine, so I guess I can skip that…

Ooh! I just got a brilliant idea.

If there’s one story that you’re particularly intrigued by, tell me in the comments. If there is enough feedback, perhaps I’ll just make my next post dedicated to whichever topic has generated the most interest. Or just don’t comment at all and I’ll construe all of the non-response as evidence that my life is as uninteresting as I secretly fear.

(Excuse me while I order a pizza.)


A Progressive Pre-Hurricane Friday

First of all, I should apologize to the entire east coast.  I had no idea that my being homeless for a week would result in an earthquake and a category 1 hurricane named after a Jim Carrey movie, but it has.  These unfortunate events clearly indicate that the world actually does revolve around me, and I’m sorry.


Regarding the apartment search, a great friend of mine referred me to a no-fee broker who is now doing the dirty work of finding a place for me.  She is confident that I will have a home by the end of the coming week.  Granted, this bitch is generally impossible to get a hold of, so my hopes aren’t too high.  But the thought that she exists is comforting.

My self-guided search came to a horrible low on Friday when I decided to view a three-bedroom share in the Lower East Side.

Prior to this visit, most of what I knew about the Lower East Side was that it was home to pre-fame Lady Gaga back when she was addicted to cocaine.  And can I just say, now that I’ve toured an apartment there, I totally understand why she took to drugs.

As a whole, the area is filthy.  I say this not by my snobby Connecticut standards, but by general New-York-is-already-basically-dirty standards — so this is saying a lot.  Also, there were “project” buildings aplenty, and I’m pretty sure I saw human teeth on the sidewalks.

To be fair, the apartment I looked at wasn’t exactly in the cultural or hip part of the neighborhood.  It was more so in the area of the Lower East Side that I might refer to as the bowels of Chinatown.

Or more simply, the bowels of civilization.

It’s a shame, because the building itself wasn’t horrible, and the would-be roommates were lovely.  After they showed me around, I was kind of sad that this otherwise great apartment had to be located right in the middle of what I imagine to be the birthplace of gonorrhea.

I decided to pee and leave.

I found my way to the restroom; I peed.  Everything was going great.  But then.  As I leaned forward to flush the toilet, tragedy struck.  My sunglasses — which were clipped comfortably to my shirt’s neckline — fell.  Into the toilet.  Into my pee.

(I apologize for the imagery, but this story must be told.)

Frazzled, I decided to go ahead with the flush.  I got lucky in the sense that my glasses held it together through the toilet-water-tornado, so that was good.  Now that my urine was removed from the equation, I reached in and transported the sunglasses directly from toilet to sink, where the hot water was already running.

I squirted some Dial hand soap on them, rinsed, and placed them directly on my face.


After recovering from this debacle, I decided to walk to my old neighborhood and have lunch at my favorite salad place.  It was there — at the corner of My Old Apartment and Depression — that I determined that New York is acting like a crazy ex-boyfriend.  I spent my summer having an illicit affair (with Nashville) and now that I just expected to waltz back into New York’s life, he was getting all bitchy about it.

This revelation lasted for about two horrible minutes until I got a text from Dante.

  • Name-change alert.

Dante is a handsome and charming 28 year old man that I casually dated, fell head over heels for, and was basically rejected by (in relationship terms, at least) last fall/winter.  He happens to be an Executive Vice President at a major corporation, and lives in one of those ridiculous luxury apartments with a private terrace and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city.  Needless to say, his mere existence makes me feel inadequate.

Having heard (probably because I told him) that I was in town for the day, he offered to take me out to dinner.  I might’ve been hesitant to accept — mainly due to the distant possibility of sex combined with the fact that he’s only seen me naked twenty pounds ago — but the news of Hurricane Irene served as a good excuse to have to rush home to Connecticut before the night could progress to that point.

When the evening rolled around, I somehow managed to show up to the restaurant on time.  This was much to my dismay, as I had every intention of being late.  Dante has kept me waiting so many times in the past that I wanted to kick off our reunion by making a dramatic statement.  Something like, I’m no longer a desperate loser who’s always on time and willing to wait for you!

Instead, I just reinforced my old behavior.

However, by the end of the night it was clear that I actually have changed.

Keychanges, anyone?

We talked for hours — a great conversation — and there were absolutely no romantic expectations.  Unlike before, I was able to enjoy his company without having any random imaginings of our lavish future wedding reception.  Progress!

The experience was really more like an evening with an old friend, and it became clear to me that falling for him last year was just silly.  He’s clearly a playboy whose chances of being tamed are no better than those of Miley Cyrus.  By the end of the night, I became so comfortable with this “friends” concept that I even offered to pay for our next dinner.  Of course, this means we’ll be dining at either Chipotle or a Halal food cart.

I’ll let him choose.

In closing, I should mention that I now have a mild crush on Dan Malloy, the [heterosexual, married, 56 year old] governor of Connecticut.  I’m not sure if it’s because of his TV-ubiquity during this storm, or the fact that he kinda reminds me of Nathan Petrelli from Heroes — but the man is clearly my dreamboat.


Finding the Jewish Boyfriend Within

I’d like to preface this story by saying that going to bars alone is a fresh skill that I have only reluctantly developed as a result of moving to a new city for six weeks.  But it has so grown on me.  Sure, the first half of the night usually involves the following:

  • General awkwardness
  • Irrationally strong feelings of jealousy and/or hatred directed at people who have friends
  • Frightening premonitions of future cat-lady status

But then you get approached by a hot guy and life is suddenly worth living again.  You just have to suck on the sour to get to the sweet — like eating a lemon drop or performing oral sex as a means of receiving it later.

  • Note: all names mentioned herein have been changed to protect privacy.

So Friday night — it was the start of my last weekend in Nashville, and I found myself back at the gay bar where I met the blogged-about older hottie Martin over two weeks ago.

This time around, I ended up meeting Charley — an adorable and deliciously muscled all-American looking guy whom I typically would’ve melted for upon first contact.  However, it soon became apparent that he was drunk off his ass.  At 11:00 pm.  This threw me for a loop, as people generally don’t start slurring their words until at least midnight in New York.  This isn’t to say we don’t get drunk at all hours of the day — we’re just able to disguise it by forming whole sentences.

I was completely sober while talking to Charley.  The result was an excruciatingly uncomfortable conversation that needed to end as soon as possible.  In an effort to get him to lose interest, I turned off my charm and avoided eye contact.  It didn’t work, which I’ll go ahead and construe as evidence that I’m irresistible.

Eventually, Donna — his sassy Southern wing-woman — showed up and started rambling on about some Australian guy she was sexting with.  I feigned the urge to pee and excused myself.

As I took the long, around-the-entire-square-footage-of-the-establishment-twice way to the restrooms, I was secretly hoping to run into Martin, whom I hadn’t heard from since I responded negatively to a booty call text he sent two days after we met.  A part of me was aware of how pathetic it was to fantasize about running into him, but the other part of me wanted to get all up in his face and yell, “If we had gone on at least three dates and participated in a joint STD screening over the past two weeks, maybe we’d be sleeping together tonight!  Your loss, a-hole!!!”

It’s probably a good thing that he never showed up.

I started looking around for more potential suitors.  Only two people were catching my eye:

  • A shirtless bartender with a strangely endearing Luigi ‘stache who slightly resembled a founding member of the Village People
  • A lesbian who was wearing the same outfit as me

I decided to keep to myself.  For a moment, I became suddenly aware of the absurdity of the fact that I ended up at this bar yet again despite my staunch inability to sleep with strangers.  Then I ordered another beer and got back to scanning the room for hotties.

A basic lack of man-candy made my mind begin to wander.  My internal dialogue:

  • I miss 90’s Mariah so much.
  • I think I want Indian food for lunch tomorrow.

Before I could finish my next thought (which I’m pretty sure involved veggie samosas), a now-even-drunker Charley reappeared out of the freakin’ blue.  Without saying a word, he grabbed my hand and led me to a secluded area outside the women’s restroom.  The following bizarre exchange then occurred:

  • Me: “What’s up?”
  • Charley (directs my attention to his right bicep, which he’s now flexing): “And I’ve never even done porn.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to this unsolicited declaration.  Charley broke the silence by going in for a (ridiculously sloppy) kiss.  My sobriety was making this whole situation feel about as natural as heterosexual intercourse, so I immediately pulled away.

  • Charley: “Why are you pulling away from me?”
  • Me: “I don’t know… I feel guilty… Umm.  I’m Jewish.”

Random, irrelevant, and oh — totally a lie.  Though I do sometimes get mistaken for being Jewish, I’m actually Italian and Catholic.

I know a lot of people get a kick out of lying to strangers at bars, but honestly, I had never engaged in the activity until this very moment.  If I were ever to premeditate a spicy bar alter-ego, I doubt I’d go with with real-me-except-Jewish.

In any case, he proceeded to share that he loves Jewish boys.  Some sick part of me must have been loving the attention, because I suddenly heard myself saying things like:

  • “Yeah, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to celebrate Christmas, but then I remember how awesome Hanukkah is.”
  • “Oh, Israel?  I’ve totally been there.  I spent two months on a kibbutz last summer, and it changed my life!”

I was just about to share some of my awesome bar mitzvah memories with him when Donna emerged from the bathroom and matter-of-factly said — in the Paula Deen-iest of accents, mind you — “It’s time to leave.  Y’all are going home together.  K?”

The fact that she’s a horrible friend won’t be discussed, as this post is already too long.

To easily get out of the situation without having to explain myself, I invented a New York boyfriend and apologetically told them about him — “He’s perfect for me and I just don’t want to mess it up.  It’s not worth it.  I’m sorry.”

And then I left.

After reflecting on it over an episode of Sex and the City and a Fiber One bar, I believe there may be an allegorical quality to this whole made-up boyfriend situation.  Perhaps he is representative of my true self.  Or the dreamboat ER doctor that I mentioned here, who’s still waiting for me to stumble into his life.

Either way, it’s time to go back to New York and find him.

The Hardest Part of Hooking Up

Allow me to preface my second-ever blog post by saying that I’m already a little addicted.  The more I read about the lives of strangers, the more I’m overcome with the kind of concern and fascination I usually reserve for myself and the Kardashians.  This could be dangerous.  I can see myself a year from now wearing the same pajamas for days at a time, laying in bed — MacBook on lap — and rapidly gaining weight while living only vicariously through the blogosphere as I guzzle half-melted Ben & Jerry’s pints and eventually have to be removed from my bedroom via crane.

Then I remember that blogging is two-sided and if I want people to read about my life, it would help to have one.  Which brings us to this past weekend.

  • Note: all names mentioned herein have been changed to protect privacy.

In my inaugural post, I half-seriously mentioned something about “exhausting Nashville’s two gay bars.”  I half-ended up at one of said bars at about 10:00 pm on Friday night.

The last time I went to this establishment, I was approached by and spent two hours in conversation with Brian — an attractive and charismatic black thirtysomething contractor in town for 24 hours on business.  Eventually we were making out in a dark hallway in the back of the bar when he tried to get me to go back to his hotel room.

Enter my puritanical inhibitions.  While promiscuity is as natural for most gay men as, say, listening to Madonna or breathing, I am cursed with what I refer to out loud as “self-respect.”  Really I’m just too insecure, prone to developing feelings, and — most of all — deathly afraid of any and all STD’s.  I blame my Connecticut education and Google Images.

I tried to drunkenly convey my concerns to Brian.  He assured me he was clean and equipped with protection.  Still, I was apprehensive.  To my surprise, he was super understanding and offered a completely-on-my-own-terms hookup, saying we can do as much as I’m comfortable with and nothing more.  In the heat of the moment, I said no — opting instead to go home and eat a Fiber One bar while watching Chelsea Lately interviews on Youtube and Googling ex-boyfriends.

I’m so used to saying no in these situations that he probably could have offered to Saran-wrap his entire body before it came into any contact whatsoever with mine — and I still would’ve declined just out of comfort.

                          My life as printed on a women’s baby tee. (cafepress.com)

Back to Friday.

This time around, I decided that I needed to be more open-minded.  Along comes Martin — a forty-year-old UPS driver who lives here in Nashville.  I had previously sworn off much older men after a debacle in 2008 involving a ridiculous ex named Jose, but Martin had it goin’ on.  Masculine, tan, in better physical shape at 40 than I am at 23… generally tall, dark, and handsome.

  • Sidenote: Martin’s real-life first name is actually the same as my dad’s.  God’s sense of humor disturbs me.

Our conversation was filled with just the right amount of intellect and inappropriateness.  After sharing that he donates to charity and plays in a rugby league on the weekends, I was pretty much ready to introduce him to my entire extended family.  And/or bear his children.

We made out a little, manhandled each other, and exchanged numbers.  Despite the intense physical chemistry, there was no one-night-stand pressure.  It was wonderful.  Now, three days later, a big part of me really wants to see him again… if only I could find a way to reconcile my coital needs with my previously-mentioned neuroses.

I texted my best friend Felicity to get her advice:

ME: I made out with a hot older man the other night.  I think I may give him my flower if we ever meet again.

FELICITY: Keep calling it your flower and no one is ever gonna take it.

Not helpful, but this is why we’re friends.  Major props to anyone who gets the 90’s sitcom reference!

In any case, the sad truth is that it may be ultimately impossible for me to sleep with Martin in a way that I could ever be completely comfortable with. I’m the kind of square whose prerequisites for rolling around naked in bed with someone include things like being in a committed relationship.  And I’m fully aware that I could never have that with someone who:

  • Lives 900 miles away
  • Is almost 20 years older than me
  • Responds to my texts of “What are you up to tonight?” with “supposed to go to a bday party.. unless u want sex.”

Yes, please!  If only.

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