It's tonight. I'm feeling that sick nervous butterfly thing in my stomach. But it's a good sick nervous butterfly thing, you know what I mean?
It's with John McCain. And as I type that I cringe, wondering if he's ever read my blog and wondering how he'd react to being called John McCain. Because he's much better looking than John McCain. It's just the hairline that is reminiscent, that's all.
You may recall, I sent him an apology via text one day and received one in return which let me know, with no uncertainty, that he abhors texting and that an apology via text is the easy way out. After I got that text, I stepped back. I wondered if that was it, if the last contact between the two of us would be me making an admittedly gutless apology and him replying with a semi-ranting (although perfectly spelled and punctuated) rebuttal.
It was a while...almost two weeks, I think, before he wrote back. Apologized for the tirade (his words, not mine, but oh how I love that word) and asked if I'd like to get together and catch up.
I did. And we are.
He's taking me to a restaurant that we went to a few times back in the day. A quiet little place with ambiance from floor to ceiling, very flattering (dark) lighting and out-of-this-world kick ass food.
But I'm worried.
I'm worried that he's going to see how fat I've gotten and drive away before I can waddle out to the car.
I'm worried I have become so socially inept that finding conversation topics which don't revolve around the size of Alec Baldwin's hands, Liz Lemon quotes and the last time I had sex* will be more of a challenge than my atrophied brain can handle. And yes, for the record, I have been re-watching 30 Rock on the Wii, courtesy of Netflix streaming. Hence the conversations about Mr. Baldwin's hands (have you seen them? They are like big flesh-toned catcher's mitts hanging out from the sleeves of his suits. Me likey.) and how Liz Lemon is the Mary Tyler Moore of this century (thank you Gillian for that direct quote).
But back to this date. I'm nervous. Despite my exercising and dieting, I don't feel so great about how I look. I'm self-conscious about my muffin top, about my thunder thighs, about the old hamhock arms. I've got the Spanx cami laid out, and have selected a crisp white Talbot's blouse with a slightly ruffled, stand up collar and a plunging v-neckline (the boobs are disappearing but there's still cleavage). Since the only pants I own right now that fit are jeans, I will be wearing jeans. And some boots. It's icy today so the unstable fat chick in me wants to wear Danskos but since Danskos do absolutely nothing for short stubby legs, boots it is.
I subbed for our little preschool today, and spent a half hour outside with those darling angels and then did 2 hours outside with the big kids. It's cold and freaking windy here today, and I think I have some frostbite on my cheeks. Maybe just windburn, but whatever it is has left me looking like Lady Elaine from Mister Rogers. And my pores are huge.
Should I tell you how I'm feeling about my hair? I'm about 5 minutes away from running over to Fantastic Sam's and letting them have a go at making this dried out Michelle Duggar mullet look like something that remotely resembles human hair.
I am nervous...have you picked up on that yet?
And now I just realized something.
This isn't even officially a date, is it? If it's two people who used to be very heavily involved with one another just getting together for a little catch up, that's not a date. Maybe I'm making this into a lot more than it really is. Perhaps all of this tweaking and freaking is for naught.
Perhaps. But it could be something more.
* November of 2009. Yes, there was the whole waking up pantless next to the Artiste after the class reunion, and I crowed a bit about my life as a celibate being over, but I was being generous. I have chosen to not write about that chapter in my Victim Directory but let me assure you, I made it to my one year Celibaversary without a hitch. It's going on 1 year, 3 months now. I'm not sure I even know what I'm missing anymore.