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The Last Hurrah!

 

My girl friends and I choose bottles of wine based on their name. Which is basically like judging a book by its cover for the alcohol inclined. Because anything named “Arrogant Frog”, “Mad Dog” or “Four Sisters” and sold for five dollars begs to be drunk in copious amounts above anything sporting a boring moniker priced at $928342837498234. Or similar.

It is basically the alcoholic equivalent of choosing the quirky boy in the corner to flirt with rather than the obvious and safe choice of Zac Efron.

 

I have spent a large portion of my dating life enjoying The Obvious Choice: The classically beautiful surfer drinking beer straight out of a bong while flexing His abs. Which is basically, like, fun.

But then recently (read: eight days ago) I started to become curious about the quirky boy in the corner for reasons other than interesting conversations. To mix things up, I decided it sleep with him.

 

Hurrah!

 

There is a classically beautiful surfer who works in a store next to my house. I hate to assume (Aside: I don’t), but lets say he drinks beer straight out of a bong and has abs. If he doesn’t, I am worried, because I have no map to navigate my way unless we are travelling from A directly to B.

“I thought you had sworn of The Useless And The Pretty?” my boy friend reminded me . But essentially, he only successfully reminded me to stop making loud declarations while enjoying Four Sisters.

“Can’t I have just one more?” I begged. For permission? I am not sure. Why start now?

“Don’t you want to explore this new person who likes to have intelligent conversation after sex?”

“Meh,” I shrugged. “But I would totally like someone else to explore her…”

 

I have never been afraid to talk to the quirky boy in the corner. I am not afraid of someone responding with something interesting to say. What has caused anxiety, however, is interacting with people who I have assumed won’t understand me. And I don’t mean, like, sitting at a table full of monolingual Asians. I insinuate the apprehension one feels about how to act around someone who will never appreciate You completely.

Classically beautiful surfers have always ridden the wave of ignorance to Who I really am. And everyone has their own equivalent. I learned very early on that Our lifestyles resulted in very different personalities and philosophies, and so I have embraced the elements that simply do compliment each other [Hurrah!]. It isn’t being ignorantly judgemental. I have just known enough of Them to know what works (read: sex) and what doesn’t (read: everything else). I am not going to kid myself.

 

To do so would be like saying I am not scared of the consequences of post-coital intellectual conversation. 

 

Pretty Boy Who Sells Surf Boards For A Living met me while I was wearing tracksuit pants, sporting a hangover and buying more tracksuit pants. Which is perfect, really, because I don’t like to lead Them to believe that they are getting anything but That.

He stared at me while I browsed wool verses fleece, black verses grey and debated whether I could secretly curl up into a ball and nap on a pile of boardshorts. At first I thought I must have unknowingly sat in poop and that is why He was gazing at my butt.

 “Did you Do him?” Boy friend asked once I had sobered up enough to drive to other pretty-boy-locations. Occasionally, I hate disappointing with the reality that I am not even remotely as aggressive as I am perceived to be.

“I smelt like scotch and thought I had sat on a turd…”

“That hasn’t stoped you before, right?”

 

Boy friend was correct. My own physical misgivings have never stopped me from pursuing what I want. In reality, the social awkwardness of a relationship built purely on sexual attraction [and never anything more] has ironically stopped me from dragging Him into a change room and doing number twenty-seven on my list of Things To Do Before I Die. 

 

“I am going to try and get to know him,” I announced to AM, my incredibly patient, accepting and understanding mother, knowing full-well that this was a totally redundant process. 

“And how are you going to do that?” She questioned while compiling a garbage bin full of wine and scotch bottles.

“I am going to lay-buy a new body board.”

“Good for you, but please focus.”

“No, listen, I am going to pay off ten dollars per week. And by the time I own my board, I will have had actual conversations with Him. Commerce will be the buffer to my anxiety.”

Mandatory reasons to interact with a classically beautiful surfer have always worked wonders for me (See: Every relationship I have ever had). While I hate to mix money and sex (thus making something official), I do take every opportunity presented to me to learn a lesson and evolve personally.

If I can overcome the anxiety of Being Myself to people who don’t understand Me, I will have mastered number twenty-eight on my list of Things To Do Before I Die. Oh. And I will also get laid. Hurrah!

 

Wearing jeans, sporting a hangover and searching for a body board, I stared at Pretty Boy Who Sells Surf Boards For A Living while I tried to not fall over flat ground.

“You were here the other day, weren’t you?” He asked. Having a memory of who I am instantly impressed me (See: ever other relationship I have ever had).

I smiled while tripping over a ping-pong table.

I asked his name, knowing that for [maybe] one last time, I was judging a book by His cover. He asked for my phone number and, call me arrogant, but I knew what I was doing…

Hurrah!