So I forgot all about these little things that happened...On Friday while drinking with Jomidia, I was reminded of the pathetiqueness of our male side of the species. I arrived at the bar early and wedged myself in an empty slot at the bar, between a couple of middle aged men. I order my usual ("Tanqueray and tonic, plz.").
To my left, a pensive guy wearing a "Members Only" jacket asks, "Tanqueray. What is that?"
"It's a dry gin."
"Oh. Yeah, I used to drink that a lot."
*sigh,* I want to ask Einstein here, "Uh, if you drank it a lot, how is it that you don't know what the FUCK it is?!"---but I figure if I just nod and smile dumbly, he'll leave me alone.
Wrong. He wants to get chatty and tries the absolute worst line in the world.
"You look familiar--"
"Well, I'm not," I stop him, and shake my head. As I walk to sit at an empty table and wait for Jomidia, I hear him say to the bartender (and I'm not shitting you, here), "I can't hit on women anymore."
Now, later in the confessional, it's my turn to buy the rounds... except I'm one drink ahead of Jomidia, and offer him, "Hey. I'll go buy you one, since you just got me." It's much busier now, and I can't seem to get the bartender's attention. I'm doing goddamn origami with my $20 bill to get the guy to see me, but to no avail. The bartender takes his time getting to me.
"I need a Yuengling," I say and I fork over the $20.
"Your drink's already paid for."
"By who?" I ask.
He points over to some guy with brown curly hair who looks away when I turn towards him. Ahh, I get it... he thinks I'm buying a drink for myself!
Drink in hand, I say, "Uh... tell him I said 'thanks.'" I head back to my table. I sit down, place the beer in front of the empty and slap Jomidia on the back of his upper arm. "Ehh buddy, you got yourself a free drink," I tell him, and point to Mr. Bigbucks. "Whyn'tcha go over and give him a kiss on the cheek?"
(That was a great night, lots of fun. It'd be nice to remember how I drove home, though.)
So on Friday, I concluded "Men are really really dumb." To any male readers out there, I do apologize! But don't worry--someone totally redeemed you guys, yesterday:
I'm at the gym, an I again see this fiiiiine young man, who I've noticed more than once before, and who is extremely hot. We're talking "steely, piercing blue eyes" hot...with a perfect set of biceps and forearms... not too muscley, and a fucking knock-you-dead-where-you-stand smile. Short hair, not military, not a wiffle, but slightly jock-ish, but hip because it looks highlighted; it looks just as good with a suit and tie as it does with a rugby shirt. He's hot. Double-take hot. Hot, like Brad Pitt in Fight Club match hot. Hotttt!--like sweaty torso Top Gun beach volleyball hot. Muy caliente. GodDAMN I'll even forgive him his tribal armband tattoo--that's how hot he is.
Now, the only problem is that he *knows* he's hot. You can tell. You can just tell. I've seen him look at me once or twice, and I pretty much thought he was sneering in my general direction. So, even if I did ever talk to anyone at the gym (which I don't, because pushing weights around and grunting is not an excuse to make a social call), I certainly wouldn't be brave enough to talk to him.
Well I was doing some weighted leg lifts for my lower abs. It's an ugly machine, and the first few times I tried it, I couldn't do it--didn't know how to lower the armrests and adjust the torso-length. Anyhoo, I finish 3 sets of 10 at 40 lb. and take a breather, when Mister Hot is there. Right in front of me.
"How many more sets you do have left?" he asks.
"Um, just one more."
"Are you Knot?"
Floored. "Uh... yeah...?"
Fucking A, he smiles at me and goes, "Hi, I'm Dennis. I went to high school with you."
"You did?" I am looking incredulous. In fact, I don't think my forehead has yet fully unwrinkled from my thinking-person's frown, from sitting there and trying to place his name and face.
"Yeah,... Dennis Bergman. I was a few years behind you, though."
??? So... he's younger than me??? I'd thought him to be in his mid 30s when I first saw him... However, I'm notoriously terrible at guessing men's ages...
I'm thinking. Christ, my mind is fucking racing and I can just about feel the smoke coming out of my ears, half from racking my head and half from being nervous and MORTIFIED that I should somehow know who the FUCK this guy is, BUT CAN'T REMEMBER.
"Well, I'll see you later," he says... and... he leaves.
*sigh* I finish my last set, and just about bolt for the locker room. Gimmie a mirror!--I made sure I didn't look too damn stupid / sweat-hoggish / ugly while speaking to him. Okay, I looked at least half-way decent (for being covered in sweat and huffing and puffing), chalk it up to "well that was a nice occurrence that won't ever happen again in a million years," and go back out to do mass reps on a crunch machine.
Rocking up and down, it hits me...
It's 1992, I'm a senior. There is a new kid. He's got long hair and wears a jean jacket with some metalhead patches. ALL girls know of him because he plays guitar, really well, and once his band played at a talent show. He's so cute that not even the braces and acne can matter. Yeah, he's cute...but he's already got a girlfriend and screw it, I'm a senior and will be leaving soon, so I don't ever think about ...
DENNIS BERGMAN!!!!
I look around for him, he's over by this Universal machine for lateral pull downs, and I totally stop what I'm doing to find him.
"You used to have longer hair, didn't you!" I accost him with, and he starts laughing.
"Yeah, that was me!"
"Oh my gosh, *now* I remember! It was the hair that threw me off! Wow, what have you been doing since you got out of high school?"
He answers with the way anyone would, trying to sum up over 8 years in a few short sentences; I don't even remember what he said--except that he was in a band for a bit. And I don't say, "Really? Me too," because I don't feel like talking about that.
"So, do you live around here?" he asks me.
"Nah I live in ___, I say. How about you?"
"Oh I live right around the corner from here."
"Really. ... Wow. Well, it was good seeing you again..." I say. Even though...it's not like we were friends or anything back then... So, I have nothing else to say.
"Yeah, you too!"
And... yeah. That's that.
[So Knot, are you going to the gym today? "FUCK YEAH, I AM"]