Saturday, May 8, 2010
So. You have a friend. He's male. And that's ok because contrary to When Harry Met Sally, in your world of profound maturity, it is possible for males and females to be friends.
Anyway, he's kind of short, and I think we can all see from the Nicole Kidman/Tom Cruise situation that that is just asking for disaster.
You know that he likes you, because you are fabulous, chic, and so fantastically witty most of the time. That and the fact that he's tried it on multiple times.
But no, you guys can be friends. It's ok that he's in love with you because, let's face it, most people are and the ones that aren't are gay. You keep this charade up for a while, months probably.
But then...one merlot too deep, probably in your robe and watching some remotely sentimental chick flick (probably with hugh grant in it), you realize. Like a lightning bolt or the announcement of a Louboutin sample sale, you are stopped in your tracks, paralyzed. You like him. I mean you wouldn't try and pull some Mrs Robinson seduction act on him, but you wouldn't entirely regret a drunk snog as long as he kept his hands in his pockets (you're a lady thank you very much)
But then. The question arises. You begin to fantasize/imagine/analyse the potential encounter that would lead to this drunkenly spontaneous yet entirely planned circumstance, and you imagine the build up (fine, bit blurry, maybe involving a tequila shot) and the kiss (probably pretty ok) but then WHAT exactly happens when he pulls his face away?
Will you be enamoured by his happy little features high fiving themselves for finally landing you, or will his face be puckered up like a chicken's arse, making you immediatley jealous of Harry Potter's invisibility cloak? Will that be the moment in which you have finally sealed your next husband, or will the tortured face of a sloppy drunk dribbling a saliva waterfall linger infront of your increasingly alarmed face for several seconds too many.
The cringe face. You can't help it, he probably can't either. Your stomach drops into your arsehole. Party over. Game Over. Done. Your coffin is sealed and noone can help you. You probably planned to drag said male friend into some quiet little spot where you can privately attempt your social experiement, and now your sense of adventure has hung itself by its own intestines. You are solo. Alone. Noone can help you now. The cringe face still lingers. Coaxing you like a haggered prostitute to return to its dirty, dark, and sin filled lair.
There is only one option, my romantically mislead friend. Only one option in a circumstance as dire and emotionally wounding as this. Save yourself. This is a 911 situation. No time to cushion the blow. This is fight vs. flight. Emotional etiquette is entirely out of the window. Don't bother with elaborate ploys, schemes or excuses. LEAVE. Mutter something not entirely coherent under your breathe (to the sound of "Im so sorry but mneh me mneh beh hu, you know? k bye!"
SAVE YOUR DIGNITY. CRINGE CONTROL.
Posted by f.p at 5:53 PM