This is the time of year when everyone is making resolutions to stop eating sweets, find a new job and compliment one stranger a day. I'm not very good at keeping my resolutions. For example: still haven't finished reading The Three Musketeers, which was my resolution back at the turn of 2013. Whoops.
|I don't even remember the characters' names.|
Yep. I'm writing a book. It all started about three years ago. I had just finished recounting the saga of my latest failed dating attempt to my best friend, Becca. She laughed and shook her head as she always does, then made a request:
"For my birthday this year I want you to write all of these stories down."
What best friend wants, best friend gets. So I started to write. I used to be a meticulous journal keeper, which meant I was able to reach as far back as my first-ever-kind-of-dating-situation circa age 15. And on I forged down memory lane; from first kisses to first loves to first broken hearts. And where has that gotten me? 37 chapters spread across 157 single-spaced pages. And counting. Becca is still waiting for her 23rd birthday gift. (My bad, B.)
So as my gift to Becca and to you, my loyal blog readers, an excerpt from chapter 6: "Bunny Boy"
|SPOILER ALERT: This bunny tail (see what I did there?) doesn't have a happy ending|
Bunny Boy holds a place on the list of boys I’ve kissed but whose names I can legitimately no longer remember by name. Jason? Justin? Jake? I’m leaning toward J names for some reason, but honestly his name has completely left my brain. It could be Zanzabar for all I know. (Most likely not, but I can’t rule it out entirely.) I have since defriended Bunny Boy on Facebook and deleted his number from my phone, so I have no means to solve the mystery. Therefore, he shall henceforth only be known to me as Bunny Boy.
I meet Bunny Boy at a party with some of my sorority sisters. We parade into a small house party filled with a random assortment of socially awkward male soccer players who stare at us as if we’ve just arrived from Bulgaria. With our entrance, the number of females present literally increases tenfold. (There are ten of us…you do the math.) The female pack immediately forms a cluster in the middle of the room and dives into conversation as if there are no other human beings around.
Not even slightly deterred, BB -- armed with an alarming amount of self-confidence -- marches right up to the gaggle of girls and introduces himself. Apparently he works for TCU’s athletic department (isn’t there some kind of rule about faculty fraternizing with students?) and just moved here from North Carolina. Or South Carolina. One of the 13 original colonies. Anyway, he seems nice, but any boy who can easily and comfortably mesh into a conversation with a tight-knit group of girls is typically one of two things: 1) gay 2) a player. BB strikes me as number two. But he does have a pair of sparkly blue eyes, so I can’t say I’m not slightly intrigued. This, unfortunately, is not the first nor the last time that I will fall prey to baby blues.
I get a Facebook friend request from BB the next day. I accept, then promptly return to my life and forget he exists. Two months later, he decides to start chatting me up via Facebook. Social media really has far too great an influence on relationships these days. We quickly transition from no communication to incessant communication in one week. I haven’t seen this kid in two months, but by the end of the week I find myself driving to chez Bunny Boy for a rendezvous. Clearly a brilliant, thoughtful, super-safe idea. High five, Becky.
The most awkward part is that chez Bunny Boy is actually chez someone else. The woman of the house is a doctor who spends the majority of her time in Dallas but also owns a home in Fort Worth. All BB has claim to is a single bedroom. This is going to be interesting.
I pull up to the front of the house and immediately notice three bunny statues sitting on the front porch. Hm. Then I see Bunny Boy for the first time in two months. Not completely unfortunate looking; the eyes are still nice. I suppose this will do. (I see you shaking your head at me for going to the home of a complete stranger by myself. Six-years-later Becky is doing the same thing.)
BB whisks me inside surreptitiously past el doctore, who I can tell is judging me as I’m led upstairs. I’m going to conjecture that there’s a high probability I’m not the first female stranger she’s seen traverse through her home. At least there will be a witness if I'm about to be murdered. I also make a mental note that the doc is feeding two live bunnies in the kitchen. That brings bunny count up to five. Then BB opens the door to his bedroom, and the bunny count explodes.
Upon entering the room, I let out an audible, over-the-top, Hollywood-worthy gasp. It’s warranted, because I’m now looking at a floor to ceiling bookshelf filled with more bunny stuffed animals than one person should ever own. Probably more bunny stuffed animals than is currently present in the entire state of Rhode Island.
|Upon observing the bunny shrine, my face looks something like this.|
The first thing I do is inquire about the bunnies. BB says they work as an aphrodisiac. I laugh; he doesn’t. I survey his face for a joking grin, but I just see a blank stare. Oh my gosh. YOU GUYS. IS HE BEING SERIOUS? Does this kid live in a twisted world where a crowd of stuffed bunny observers adds to the level of lust and desire when entertaining a member of the opposite sex? No. Just, no no no no no no. Know what they do for me? FREAK. ME. OUT.
Five years later, these types of things no longer shock me. They're the norm.
Welcome to my dating life.
So anyway, I'm writing a book. I hope to share it with all of you someday. In the meantime, I'll just continue crying over baking competitions and making the below face when I plan a last-minute trip to escape a break-up then find myself surrounded by happy honeymooners during a romantic sunset in Santorini.
Here's to 2015!