Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255) Read online

The band sang the hell out of a catalog of soul classics. Oliver even joined them onstage and pulled a Phil Collins: He played drums and sang on a cover of the song “Build Me Up, Buttercup.” I stood by the side of the stage with Ricky and cheered him on.

  For dinner, I was seated at a table with all of my old college friends. My buddy Wyatt was there; I hadn’t seen him since graduation. He was the one who wrote me the breakup letter so many years ago. He talked a mile a minute and cracked me up. I told him that if he were a podcast, I’d download him every week.

  Jackson was seated up front along with the bride and groom. We made eye contact a few times and smiled at each other. For the most part, I bopped around, shoveling food onto my plate, dancing and drinking.

  I was pleased when Wyatt asked me to dance. Of course I said yes. A total goofball, he spun me around the dance floor like I was a rag doll. The fact that I’d probably had a bottle of wine by then made me especially ready to boogie. Everything was going great until he tried to execute a dip, aka the worst dance move ever. The laws of physics conspired against us: His 5′7″ soft frame was no match for my 6′1″. He placed his hand on my lower back and tried to bend me backward. Immediately, it was evident that he’d misjudged a few key things: namely my flexibility and his strength.

  He held me in the dip position for about one second until I felt his biceps start to quiver. Then, in the middle of the dance floor, with everyone watching us, he dropped me. It felt like it happened in slow motion, like an elephant going down after being hit by a tranquilizer gun. I went down. Hard.

  As I was falling, I made eye contact with Katya’s grandmother. Her mouth was wide open and she looked horrified, like I’d just grabbed the pope’s butt during Christmas mass.

  Unfortunately, Oliver’s new in-laws had front-row seats to my wipeout. I landed with a thud, totally spread-eagled in front of the entire table, which got an eyeful of my black cotton Jockey for Hers flashing around like a surrender flag.

  Wyatt tried to help me get up from the floor, but he was too weak to pull me up. He almost did it, but then he lost his grip and I fell back on the ground again. After a few failed rescue attempts, I finally rolled over onto my knees and slowly got up like the lady that I am. With Wyatt wiping away tears on the back of his sleeve from laughing so hard, I apologized to the entire table.

  I looked around the room, and it was clear that the party was winding down. I grabbed my purse and left to find Steve to go back to his house. I didn’t find him, but I found Davy Baxter. At 5′5″, he looked just as he had in college, so many years ago. He looked handsome, like a less-greasy, shorter version of Ethan Hawke in Reality Bites. My face lit up.

  “Hey, Davy, have you seen Steve? I’m not sure if you heard, but I’m staying at your place tonight.”

  “Hey, Anna. Yeah, I have no idea where Steve went. I was just gonna head back, too. Wanna go with me?”

  “Sure, that’d be great.”

  Once we got back to his place, we plopped on the living room couch. Davy took out his laptop and went to check his MySpace page. (This was in 2006, before Facebook made MySpace a deserted Internet playground except for mallpunk bands and divorced dads in flyover states.)

  I looked over his shoulder at his page and remarked that he should customize his top eight. He didn’t know how to do it, so I showed him how, even bumping it up to a top sixteen. To thank me for my tech support, he placed me in the thirteenth position of his top sixteen. It was a bit of a scrolldown, but I was pleased with the gesture.

  Shit. Here I was, kicking it with my college crush, nestled in his top sixteen to boot. Life was good. Steve and Jackson came home a little bit later, so after everyone got their nap on, we got ready for the afterparty, at a bar on Seventh and Driggs. I changed into a short red dress. The guys tossed on some jeans. We rolled in to celebrate with the newlyweds.

  After a little bit, I found Davy sitting in a booth, fiddling with a digital camera. I slid next to him.

  “Take a picture of me,” I demanded. He complied, shifted a little to the side to get a better angle, and snapped a picture. The flash was bright.

  “Now take another one of both of us.” Without saying a word, he scooted next to me, extended his arm, leaned into the frame, and took a picture of us together. He put the camera down but still stayed close to me. He was so close, I could smell his cologne, which was still on him from the wedding that afternoon. I liked it.

  “Wanna get outta here?” he asked.

  “God, yes.”

  Davy took my hand and I followed him to the door, turning around to catch a glimpse of Jackson at the bar, craning his neck to see where I was going.

  Are you leaving? he mouthed.

  I nodded.

  With him? he mouthed back.

  I nodded again. Then I shrugged. Sorry, former archenemy! I had the chance to make out with someone on my kiss wish list who didn’t live in Bolivia. Besides, Davy was so cute, and holding hands with him felt awesome, like finding a winning lotto ticket that I thought I’d lost.

  I thought we would head back to his house, but he took a sharp turn down a desolate block. “Where are we going?”

  “My favorite place. You’ll love it.”

  This “favorite place” that Davy took me to was a hockey bar called the Penalty Box. It was situated beneath an underpass, but it might as well have been located in Mordor. If I had to describe this place, I’d go with “smoky coke den.” Underneath the copious amounts of neon beer signage, we were surrounded by the kinds of people who looked like they didn’t wear sunscreen or make flossing their teeth a priority. It felt like we were at a Jerry Springer taping. I think we were the only people in the place who didn’t owe child support. It was safe to say that I didn’t quite fit in with the deadbeat-dad aesthetic the Penalty Box so expertly cultivated.

  Davy picked out two bar stools by the TV. A hockey game was on and it was loud, competing with the lively conversation around us. We ordered the cheapest beers in the place.

  “Do you think she’s on MySpace?’ Davy pondered.

  “Who?”

  “The singer of the band. She was really hot.”

  “Which band?” I was confused.

  “The band at Oliver’s wedding. The singer lady. She was so talented. I went up to talk to her. She told me that she’s thirty-five. Is that too old for me?”

  “Are you kidding? Is this a joke?” Davy was on another planet.

  “No, she was really hot. Do you think she’d go out with me?”

  “Um, do you wanna go back and ask her?”

  “Nah.” He didn’t pick up on my sarcasm. “Besides, she’s probably gone anyway.” He’d honestly considered leaving me at the Penalty Box and going back to the Polish venue to ask her out. I was floored.

  “So, you take me to this stink hole and you’re talking my ear off about another girl? Are you serious?” I was downright offended. If he hadn’t been so good-looking, I would’ve stomped right out. This felt just like college; I still couldn’t keep his attention. Challenge accepted, Davy.

  I grabbed Davy’s hand and shushed him.

  “We have one night together. Let’s make the most of it.” I tried to sound sultry, but I think I just sounded demented.

  “Yeah, but do you think she’s on—”

  “I said be quiet. Stop talking about this girl.” I wished I could’ve given Davy a personality transplant, or at least a muzzle. He was so much better with his mouth shut. This was the thanks I got for formatting his top sixteen?

  Well, we got hammered at the hockey bar. I didn’t listen to a word he said; I just tried to pretend that I was on a better date, sipping better beers with a better guy. After a while, we decided to go back to his place. It was a ten-minute walk but it took a bit longer because he’d take three steps forward and one step back. His little frame couldn’t handle the day of drinking.

  We finally got to his house, and it took him another five minutes to find his keys. As he put his key in the door
, he turned around from the top step and kissed me. To his credit, it was a perfect kiss. I felt like I’d fallen into a pile of pillows. I was also tired and drunk, so anything probably would’ve felt good at that point.

  Once inside, we went straight to his room. He expertly navigated the mess on the floor, but I stumbled on something right away. I flicked on his overhead light and to my horror, it looked like a garage sale had puked all over the place. There was junk everywhere. His clothing was half-strewn in the dresser, like zombie shirts poking out of their drawer graves. Dirty dishes teetered precariously on his desk. I gasped. I’ve seen tidier crack houses. Being in his room was like being stuck in Charles Manson’s brain.

  He was already halfway across the room. “Come to bed,” he urged. I tiptoed through the muck to his bed. Unfortunately, there weren’t any sheets on his mattress. I’m pretty sure even prisoners have sheets. I felt like I was lying down in a greasy pizza box.

  I curled up next to him and we kissed for exactly four minutes before he passed out. Turning over on my side, I slipped my arm around his waist. I was the outer spoon, bringing him into my chest like a stuffed animal. That was when I noticed that his pillows were flat. I tried to fold one over itself to give my head more support, but it was no use. I felt like I was resting on Olive Oyl’s bony knee. There was no way I was going to be able to sleep in this clutter.

  I reached over to tug at his comforter and get a bit of warmth when I felt that all-too-familiar scratchy, thin, cheap fabric: It’s from IKEA, isn’t it? It is. I knew it. I fucking called it. To paraphrase the Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt power ballad, I don’t know much, but I know this shitty comforter.

  For the record, my comforter on my bed is fluffy and light, like Dr. Emmett Brown’s hair. It’s a neutral color because, unlike Davy, I don’t need orange rectangles and burnt sienna ovals on my bedding. I get that he’s artsy; his bed doesn’t have to rub it in my face.

  It was dotted with cigarette burns from almost a decade of late-night gabfests with a parade of ex-girlfriends. It felt like I was brushing up against a hobo’s crusty nostril every time the fabric scratched my skin.

  Not to be too dramatic, but the one-two punch of a shitty IKEA bedspread and flat pillows is my own personal version of Guantanamo Bay. I frowned at the lackluster bedding, sighing heavily as I made the best of it.

  Then, I heard Steve’s and Jackson’s voices through the walls chattering away in the next room. They must have just gotten home from the party. I started to feel bad for blowing Jackson off but not bad enough to go out there and say hi or anything. That was when it hit me that I’d hooked up with two-thirds of this household within twenty-four hours. I was like a bad math problem.

  There was definitely no chance of sleeping a wink because the thought of seeing both Davy and Jackson over breakfast bagels was a little too awkward for me to endure. I lay awake all night, unable to catch one wink of shut-eye. Sleeping with Davy wasn’t nearly as much fun as I’d hoped, but I was proud of myself for finally being able to cross him off my kiss wish list. I comforted myself with the thought that it was better than most wedding souvenirs. Go, me!

  Around six A.M., I quietly gathered my things and left a note on the kitchen table thanking my hosts for their generous hospitality. I even drew a red heart on it using my lipstick because I’m classy.

  I slipped out of the house like a cat burglar and power-walked to the subway like I was leaving the scene of a crime. Thirty-five minutes later, I was standing on a dingy corner in Chinatown, chewing on a toasted everything bagel smeared with cream cheese, waiting to catch the first bus back to Philly.

  If this were an episode of Full House, Danny Tanner would sit on the edge of my bed as we went over what I learned from this event. Soft music would play and I’d tell him that I learned that I’m not the kind of girl to turn down a willing fella on her kiss wish list, even if he’s infatuated with a woman who wears white eye shadow and even if it makes it awkward for every other person in his house. So, I guess you could say that I knew myself eighty-six percent of the way by the end of the weekend. Figuring out the rest was Future Anna’s problem.

  CHAPTER 8

  The High Cost of a Free Sandwich

  Recently, I’ve developed a few disturbing habits. First, I’ve been dabbling in petty theft. Don’t worry, I’m not pulling a Winona Ryder, stuffing my handbag full of pricey garments at Bloomingdale’s. As far as my thievery goes, I steal pretty stupid shit. Mostly, I’ve been stealing a bottle or two of beer from a house party or backstage area. It’s a little trophy for the road. Dexter has microscopic glass slides of his victims’ blood; I have a lukewarm Corona in my purse.

  I tell myself that it’s not that bad in the scheme of things. I don’t even know if swiping a beer is an actual legal offense. I doubt anyone would press charges over one measly beer bottle. In the spectrum of bad houseguest behavior, stealing a beer from someone’s fridge ranks somewhere between accidentally breaking a wineglass and puking in the host’s hamper. So why do it? Why take the risk? Because it’s a frosty present for my future self. I think ahead to a time when I come home from a long day at work and see a stolen Sierra Nevada chillin’ in my fridge. That stolen beer is an investment in my future happiness. A brewed 401(k), if you will.

  My second disturbing habit is that I’ve been craving sandwiches late at night. I’m like a portly sitcom dad: I pretty much need a sandwich in my face at that exact minute the bars close down for Philly’s two A.M. curfew. Starting at midnight, it’s all I think about. Where am I gonna get this sandwich? What kind will I get? Do I want honey roasted turkey or plain? Should I buy another beer or save my money and spring for a footlong? I’m weighing the pros and cons of partying longer with stuffing my face in an hour. I’m like a thoughtful gremlin; it’s insane.

  I’m not proud of either of these things. And it hasn’t escaped my attention that if I combined the two, I’d basically be Jean Valjean from Les Misérables. But, thankfully, my life isn’t a Broadway musical about the French Revolution, so I’m in the clear. For now.

  One night, I was at an afterparty for a large tech conference in downtown Philly. It was like Mardi Gras for the Twitterati; people were updating their statuses to make everyone aware that they were having a blast. (Because if nerds know anything, it’s that it’s not a good time until it’s documented, tweeted, and ignored.)

  The organizers had invited me to deejay the event, which I was happy to do. It was my first time behind the turntables, but I didn’t let that intimidate me. I decided to have a nineties theme to my set because I never get to hear that kind of music when I go out. So with Reality Bites streaming on a screen behind me, I regaled the bar with a lively mix of the Cardigans, Nirvana, and R.E.M. Thankfully, the venue paired me up with an experienced deejay who tweaked the levels and fiddled with the necessary knobs so I didn’t make a total fool of myself in front of the packed crowd.

  After my set, I made my way to the bar to slam a beer, celebrating a job well done and trying to figure out if I should head over to the Wawa for a six-inch turkey on wheat with cheese, pickles, lettuce, and tomato, or go the extra mile down to South Philly and hit up Jim’s for one of their fabulous cheesesteaks. I was by the bar trying to flag the bartender down when my friend Rosie suddenly appeared next to me. She was very drunk.

  Swinging her arm around my shoulder, she slurred. “Annnnnnna. This guy right here in the black leather jacket behind me? His name is Sam. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but he’s so rich. Like, so rich! And he likes you. He was just tellllllling me about how he thinks you’re cute.” She turned her head to let out a burp. “’Scuse me.”

  I nodded. Clearly, a situation was developing here, and I’m not talking about the one in her stomach. At that moment, I took a second to high-five myself in my head because I had chosen to wear my polka-dot dress to the party. A total boner-grower, the sweetheart neckline showed off my rack perfectly. I smiled wide as Rosie continued, although she didn’
t have to; I was already sold on the idea of meeting him.

  “You should talk to him. He just moved here from D.C. and he thinks you’re prrrrrretty. He’s staying at the Four Seasons Hotel. You need to meet him. This could be your future husband or something. He’s Jewish like you. Oh my God, you guys are gonna have the cutest babies.”

  I closed my eyes for a second and imagined my babies with this mystery man whose face I had never seen. Yes, they were cute in my head!

  “He’s sitting at the end of the bar.” Rosie smelled like a bar mat.

  “Oh, wow. Thanks for the heads-up.” A rich dude? Here? What luck! Rosie is hooking me up! I turned to peep this fine specimen, my potential Daddy Warbucks in leather.

  My smile evaporated quickly. At the end of the bar teetering on a stool was a man who looked like Jerry Seinfeld with adult acne and huge, greasy Jeffrey Dahmer eyeglasses. He resembled a melted Elvis Costello. And, to my horror, he was wearing a baggy leather jacket, the kind old people buy at Costco. He looked like he was in a dad band. It was not hot.

  I felt betrayed by this leather jacket description, swindled even. How can something made of leather be so wimpy? There was nothing tough about this guy or his jacket. I wanted to strip it off him, stuff it in a garbage can, and set it on fire. Honestly, I would’ve preferred if he had just shown up in a barrel and suspenders. Hell, even a unitard would’ve been an improvement. That would’ve been a better look for him than that baggy leather jacket.

  As I got closer, I saw that he had stiff, spiky bangs. I immediately pictured him in front of his mirror applying product to the front of his head, sculpting his bangs to get them all crispy and pointy like that. It was goofy! Honestly, he looked like a boy band’s understudy. I’ll admit that I thought that this look was cool for, like, five minutes in early 2000. (If you must know, it was during the video for ’N Sync’s “Bye Bye Bye.”) But that was eons ago! I don’t understand why guys continue to do this to themselves.