(a.k.a. No More Martinis for Me!)
As I lie here in bed like the rotting vegetable I am, contemplating the aftermath of one of the most anticlimactic “hurricanes” (read: it was a tropical storm, and even that’s just me throwing out little confetti compliments), I can’t help but wonder; first, why we had an earthquake and a hurricane before the week was even out, and second, why it is so hard to contemplate anything at all. Oh, right. My face hurts like someone drove a truck over it, downshifted, and then backed over me again. Several, several times. This is no ordinary truck we’re talking about either. See, actually, it was a sidewalk…
I mean, it all started out innocently enough. It was a beautiful, sunny Wednesday afternoon in our nation’s capital. August at its very best in D.C.’s swampland climate that supports mutated eco life I hope never to encounter. The day had all the trappings for a fairy tale!
As I was joking around with my colleagues and packing up to leave the office downtown, I get a call from who I assume is the receptionist on my office phone. But…it’s Kevin! “Hi honey, I’m down here in the lobby waiting for you.”
“My lobby?”
“Yes, your lobby.”
After a very high-pitched squeal of delight, I told him I’d be right down.
I chucked my cell phone in my purse and grabbed my lipstick and compact. Fortunately, I had spontaneously decided to dress up that day (despite my company’s “summer casual” dress code that goes every day through Labor Day) in my perfect pink Jackie O jacquard dress with the ruffled neckline, nude sandals, and pearls galore (well, that’s nothing new…).
I’d even managed to swipe on a bit of makeup at some point in the day (this has become an increasingly rare phenomenon as it has become an inevitable absolute that I will weigh my priorities of actually looking good versus sleeping in ten more minutes every morning – sleeping always wins).
As I trotted to the elevator to greet my Prince Charming, I grew more and more excited. Kevin has never, and I mean never surprised me at my office/apartment/any sort of dwelling that counts as my territory to sweep me off my feet. Don’t get me wrong – he loves to surprise me, which I love about him, but he never just shows up to my side of the tracks. Particularly to take a leisurely stroll across the bridge and arrive at the Four Seasons Bourbon Steak Restaurant, one of the finest restaurants in the country, let alone the city.
The bar itself is a major hotspot in D.C. Everyone: politicians, the wealthy, and no one within a decade’s range of my age, could be found there posing with their elegant martini glasses, perhaps swirling a highball half-full of single malt scotch, or a long-stemmed goblet of wine. Surprised we could even find a place to sit down, we were delighted to find a spot on one of the couches. So, we staked out our territory and a server promptly slithered toward us in her sexy black uniform to take our order.
One of Kevin’s go-tos: a Bloody Mary.
For me? (No longer one of my go-tos, to say the least): a vodka martini, up, no olives, with a twist.
We talked and I snuggled my legs up against Kevin, flirting, talking about the faces he recognized – he would nod politely; then he would tell me some interesting quirk about quantum physics he’d read about that particular day until I was the one smiling and nodding politely. Now, I don’t discount my own intelligence. Sort of. But I was always grateful when he would steer the conversation back to a topic I could easily chime in on – batshit crazy celebrities, who was in rehab and who wasn’t, the best skin products…okay, I’m not that one-dimensional. But I’d had quite a few martinis by then, so you can’t blame me for sucking at intelligent conversation.
However many drinks later, Kevin had both of us escorted to a table in the restaurant. We ordered. We talked more. We were lucky that they had a 25-year-old Grand Cru Burgundy that was an unexpected 1.5 liter magnum size. It was orgasmic. The amount of wine in the decanter seemed to decrease imperceptibly, but maybe I was just focused on the drunkalicious black truffle macaroni and cheese. Delicious as it was, I don’t exactly remember every detail of the night we had shared. Not even getting in the cab. Just seeing Kevin press the little buzzer button to get into my building if you were a guest or didn’t have your keys on you (I apparently couldn’t find mine)…and then waking up the next morning feeling like a bomb had exploded in my head. I could literally taste blood. Shit. I figured if I went back to bed and woke up later, this whole debacle would solve itself.
A few hours later, Kevin called to check on me.
“What happened?” I groaned.
Here. Here is what happened:
I was getting out of the cab, making sure I had all my things with me, and I stood up to look over at Kevin, and for no reason whatsoever, while I was totally minding my own business, the sidewalk suddenly leapt up at me and slapped me in my face. Twice. I think. Bitch.
Kevin proceeded to explain over the phone that he was terrified I’d broken a tooth or something because I was bleeding from the mouth. False alarm: bit my lip really hard on my way down. I’m still pretty sure I broke something in my nose. It’s cut up horribly on the outside and swollen and most likely terribly bruised on the inside. I have a black and blue lump the size of an orange on the side of my head. And here I sit, four days later, still in agony and quite clearly suffering from brain damage. (If you’ve gotten this far through this post, you most likely already figured that one out.)
So…Sidewalk: 1. Elizabeth: 0.
I’m ready for next week to not be the apocalypse. Please, God? Please?
Your half-chosen daughter,
Elizabeth Alida
