Back when I lived in Nashville and Jerk & I had just broken up, I lived in an apartment complex with my roommate, Jenna. Because I had to take Lex out a few times a day, I eventually got to know my neighbors. Jay, an older bachelor lived below us with his dog, Rocky. Next to him lived Eric. At 33, Eric was a bit older than me. But whatever, we were all just having a good time.
Somehow, we all started hanging out by the pool every weekend drinking beer and getting some sun. It was a great way to spend our weekends. Around the middle of the summer, Eric asked me out. For our first outing, we went to a Fishing Tournament. No joke. It was my first ride on a motorcycle and my first fishing tournament. To be fair, his best friend was competing and he hadn’t seen him in a long time.
We continued hanging out for another month, going to BBQs and out to Silverado’s on Saturday nights. Eventually, he asked if I wanted to go to a field party. Being from the suburbs, I had NO idea what a field party was. Turns out, it’s a party in a field. Complete with bonfire and a ridiculous amount of liquor. Eric had grown up in the area and had a lot of friends at the party. I, on the other hand, knew one other person. At some point during the night, I lost track of Eric. I wasn’t that into him anyway, so I didn’t really care. I had, however driven him there, so felt obligated to drive him back.
Well, he finally showed up about an hour later…totally hammered. This is a TOTAL turn-off for me. You’re an adult. Know your limit. Once we get in the car and start driving back, he starts word vomiting everywhere.
“Lindsay, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I can’t get a read on you. Half the time you want to hang out with me, half the time you don’t act like you care and half the time I don’t know what to think!”
Um, ok genius. Not possible to have 3 halves. I smartly kept quiet and just let him continue rambling on.
“I mean really, Lindsay. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m a f*ck*ng catch! People want to be with me…girls…lots and lots of girls would KILL to be in your place.”
Hold up there, buddy. Did you actually just tell me you’re a “f*ck*ng catch?” Seriously? To me?
With all of my being I wanted to retort “What part of you is a ‘catch?’ The part where you smoke? Or that you live in an apartment at the age of 33? Or that you refuse to work hard to have anything in your life? Oh no, it’s the part where you get ridiculously drunk all the time, isn’t it? That has to be it.”
He ended up getting laid off a few weeks later and moved back to his hometown in Texas. Thank goodness. My friends still love to tell this story, they think it’s hilarious…and it is.
I’m thinking that if you have to tell someone you’re a catch…you’re probably not.
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