It was 2005, and I was hanging out with some new friends. Since I had only recently moved to the US, my social group consisted of a few female colleagues from work. I was testing the waters, you know, finding my niche. And I had just finished my second martini. I felt good that night. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I didn't really want to commiserate with Laura and her boyfriend troubles. What I really wanted was to let loose, to let my hair down. I mean, everyone around me kept saying how fun America was. When was I going to see any of that? I wanted, nay, needed to party the American way.
At the same time, I was not ready to lose those precious new friendships I had so tenaciously forged, so I went along with their conversation. Yep, guys were gross. Guys would break your heart ten ways to tomorrow. Guys with good looks who were also sweet, loving, caring, and loyal were rare. Had I dated anyone like that? Nope, only d-bags of the highest order, Laura. I feel your pain.
Then the topic spiraled onto another tangent. A topic more to my style and liking.
What constituted a hot guy anyway? Nice jawline? Abs? Front row seats to the gun show?
Yeah, I said that last one. Not that any of the girls thought I meant it literally. But I literally meant it literally. Guns are hot.
When I got up to talk to Jillian, who had arrived late, you, standing at the bar and pretending to look casual and unimpressed, caught my eye. Not because you were super hot or particularly sexy but because you were wearing a suit. Like…full on suited up, tie and all, and I thought you looked ridiculous. Like MacLaren's most douchey regular. That meant I was not interested, thank you very much, although you were kinda cute and taller than me—which is an important criterion—and you pulled off the blond look very well. That's rare for a dude.
Then my gaze drifted, and I saw your friend with the black hair and the big eyes. You said something to him, something I knew I didn't want to know. It didn't matter. I was already running ruses in my mind, trying to figure out the best way to casually introduce myself to him. I settled on the easiest, most reliable method of approach. I call it the "Invade His Space," and the steps are simple. Get on a cute guy's radar by getting all up in his business. So hair tucked behind my ear, lipstick fresh, I told my girlfriends I'd buy the next round of drinks before squeezing my way into his line of view.
My heart started to beat faster, my body heating up with that heady rush that often follows my attempts for attention. I had always appreciated the lingering looks, no matter how pervy, and the so-called "accidental" brush ups against my boobs by horny guys. I was sexy, okay, and I was not ashamed of showing off my God given goods. My feminine wiles were gifts, generous endowments my dad so hated, but gifts I loved and wanted to flaunt in order to seduce Mr. "Too Shy to Talk to Me So I'll Just Stand Here Eyeballing You All Night." Typical guy.
But you were no typical guy. Although it was disappointing that you, and not him, approached me first, I played it cool and let you invade my space. Your finger touched my shoulder. You said some words. Then you slipped away, and I felt a flash of gratitude toward your retreating form before forgetting you completely, totally, and utterly.
Because that was how I met Ted.