Debts, with a side order of cheese fries...

Went on a date last night, with someone whom I found marginally boring over the phone, but, with H out of the picture for a bit, and a lack of interesting focal points on the ol’ social calendar, I figured a night spent in anyones company other than my own qualifies as refreshing, daring, and a tad dangerous. Or maybe, it’s my own company that’s dangerous…either way. I showered. Sat on the bed. Shaking. Unable to go any further.

I remembered this day, when I lived in LA, on the beach, when I had a date, with someone, and I thought I wanted to go, til I tried to get dressed. The clothes, on the bed, awaiting a sleek, newly shaved body to slip into them, the brush and blow dryer anxiously ticking away the seconds of freshly dryed hair on the counter, and I, toweled, in tears, unable to even dress.

I called my bestest pal in the world, who’d seen me through the hideous breakup of P, when I doubted I’d ever go on, unloading the whole mess of I Wish I’d Never Accepted This Stupid Date, to I’m Having A Bad Hair Moment, to that final realization, bolted out loud, that I Was Too Scared To Meet Anyone. P didn’t want me, why would anyone else? And she perservered. She talked, and laughed, and basically, over the phone, wiped my nose, helped me dress, and forced me to open the door. Oh, I didn’t date him long, but I went out. Had dinner. Laughed. Got kissed goodnight. Tucked away in the back of my brain, how much indebted to her I am.

Last night, I might as well have been ten years younger, scared witless of a harmless, shy scientist, who’d graciously invited me to dinner; at the time of acceptance, I was thrilled. He seemed fun. I was looking forward to it. Until, naturally, came the witching hour, with the showering and shaving prolonged until the hot water ran out, fingers so shrively that they nearly lost control of the hair dryer and brush. The towel, a different color this time, but tied in the same fashion draping that still maybe sleek enough but newly shaved body. And it starts. The shaking. The crying. The insane fear of dinner.

There, in my bathroom, amid piles of white towels, candles, scented sachets (to allure the house hunters, don’tcha know) I heard her voice again, warm, like honeyed satin, reminding me that it’s Just. Dinner. Whether I spilled my drink (which, wouldn’t you know, I did) or slid food across the table while slicing it (I didn’t) all I had to do was be me. Regardless of what happened, she loved me, and it’d be fine. Dating is hard. It’s scary. But it’s not rocket science. I’m not stuck there. I can leave at any time. I never really thanked her for that - the being there part, holding my hand, when I was so afraid no one would ever want to hold it or me again.

In those moments, covered in nervous goose-bumps, doubting myself, I miss her the most, and curse states like Ohio, and Nebraska, and…um….Nevada that separate her and I. She was right though, it was only dinner. With someone whom I actually enjoyed meeting. We laughed, ate, and I let him kiss me goodnight. He said he’d call; he did. He’s coming up for dinner and a movie tonight, knowing that my house has been hit by Hurricane Hunter, and that we’ll trip over legos, fur,puzzle pieces, and matchbox cars in the playroom, enroute to viewing a movie we’ve yet to select.

Too bad she’s not here. I’d have her and her to-die-for-sweet boyfriend up for moral support. Naturally, I’d have to alter the menu, and include less green items, and more fried chees items, but that’s okay. That’s what you do for best friends. Besides, of course, being there for them, when they need you the most - which in my life? Is fresh from the shower, trembling, wrinkly skinned, and doubtful.

Now, I owe her twice.