National Supreme Sacrifice Day, National Corn Dog Day, National Sloppy Joe Day, National Lacy Oatmeal Cookie Day, National Awkward Moments Day - March 18th
LAINEY
I know I'm not the only person who's prayed to the porcelain god after St. Patrick's Day, but I don't think many barfed up copious amounts of tequila and an enchilada plate. I should vow not to drink margaritas or eat Mexican food again, but let's be honest, that'll never happen. Though I might take a break until Cinco de Mayo.
I groan as I reach for the glass of water on my nightstand that I was thankfully smart enough to put there. I have zero plans to leave my bed today. I can post about my date from here and I'll consider my workday done. I’ll just have to figure out a way to make my disastrous holidate sound good.
Ryan was one of the many guys who had emailed What’s Good, ATX interested in being one of my holidates. He was perfect on paper, but who knew he’d take St. Patrick’s Day so seriously? He had a schedule of when we would hit up each pub, and God forbid we deviate. He was more than happy to end our date after I suggested we ditch the pubs and get Mexican food. Thankfully, my BFF, Josie, is always on board for margaritas and Mexican food, so I roped her in as my second holidate.
Hopefully, I have enough pics of the pub crawl with Ryan for my post because the drunken photos of me and Josie downing margaritas will not be included.
God, what a mess we were. I'm pretty sure I spilled my drink into a basket of chips. Then—
I gasp as I jack-knife in bed.
My head immediately reacts to the quick movement with a sharp stab of pain, and I press my hand to my temple as if it'll help. Even through the throbbing, I remember snippets of the end of the night. Us getting kicked out of the restaurant. Me texting Ben.
Oh God. Why do I have a bad feeling about my texts?
My stomach rolls and I pause, wondering if I'll need to sprint back to the bathroom.
I sit here and breathe, eyes closed, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. Once I know my stomach isn't going to revolt, I reach for my phone and scroll through our messages, and my stomach is back to sloshing around as my chest tightens. Oh, my God. I don't think I can be more humiliated. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I can't tell him I don't want to date him then beg him to fuck me.
I am the worst sort of wishy-washy that I can’t stand.
When did I become that person? Maybe when the margaritas had me confessing to Josie that Ben and I exchanged flirty texts, and let her convince me a booty call text was a good idea.
I can't even work up the courage to text him and thank him for being the voice of reason last night. I toss my phone away and burrow back under my covers.
No idea how long it is before I hear a ring through a fog and blink open my eyes, disoriented for a few seconds before I realize I fell back asleep. I glance at the clock beside my bed and see it’s now early afternoon. Shit, I've been asleep for hours and still haven't posted about my date. I grab my phone and see a few texts from my boss. Just great .
I text her back, letting her know it'll be posted within the hour. I don't even know how I'm going to pull that off, but I will. I throw the covers off and get out of bed. My stomach seems to have settled, but my head still feels fuzzy. I pull on pajama bottoms and make my way to the kitchen. A little toast, coffee, and ibuprofen will get me through my post.
As I pass my front door, I remember the ring. It was my doorbell. I open it to see a box on my welcome mat. It's not properly addressed but has a card taped to the top that says, Don't worry, it's not a bomb - Ben
I snort a laugh, pick up the box, and take it to the kitchen. I open it up to find another card that reads:
Happy:
National Supreme Sacrifice Day
National Corn Dog Day
National Sloppy Joe Day
National Lacy Oatmeal Cookie Day
National Awkward Moments Day
Oh my gosh, he didn't. I glance inside and see a can of Sloppy Joe mix and a package of buns, a container of lacy oatmeal cookies, a box of frozen corn dogs, a bottle of ibuprofen, and Gatorade.
I open the card and read his note.
Lainey,
I doubt you'll be interested in Sloppy Joe's today, but a corn dog would be a nice greasy hangover lunch. It's the sexiest carnival food around! And if you aren't going to eat those lacy oatmeal cookies, then I request you return to sender. Can't let those babies not be celebrated on their big day.
The ibuprofen and Gatorade don't have a special day (at least not today), but I thought it might help with the hangover you're probably experiencing.
Last night it was supremely hard to not accept your invitation and you might be suffering an awkward moment this morning after remembering our text exchange, but please don't give it another thought. Drunk texting happens to the best of us. Plus, I definitely experienced an awkward moment this morning while I stared at my phone anxiously hoping for your text to come through.
I'm sacrificing my pride to give you this package, hoping it'll convince you to text me (not the point of the holiday, but I thought you'd appreciate some humor).
It's not too late to save me from this one. Just saying.
Happy March 18th!
Ben
P.S. It's also Goddess of Fertility Day. So, if you decide to text me that invitation to come over, I'm properly prepared with the special weapon to fight off the Goddess' gift.
I laugh out loud at that last line, and my head reminds me loud sounds are a no-no. I can't believe he did this for me. He's made it impossible for me to ignore him. I go get my phone and text him.
Me
You're kinda funny, you know that? Kinda sweet, too.
Ben
I really want to take those compliments to heart, but I have a feeling that "funny and sweet" is not going to get me an invitation to come over to be rough and hard.
Even as embarrassment washes over me at the reminder of my text, intense tingles fire up between my legs. I don’t know how my hungover body can even contemplate getting turned on. But Ben never seems to fail to push those buttons.
Me
Thank you for being a gentleman last night.
Ben
You're welcome. And today, I can be as ungentlemanly as you want.
The problem is, I really, really want to invite him over. Not only do I want him, but I just plain like him. As humiliating as it is that I begged him to fuck me, I still had a stupid smile on my face reading our text exchange.
I shift back and forth on my feet, staring at my phone for the longest time. I think about the way he smiled at all the women giving him beads on Mardi Gras. Then about everything he confessed about his mom and being Frat Bro Ben. I really don’t think he gets how potent his charm is. And while I feel he was genuine on Ash Wednesday, it’s still hard to believe his flirting is all for show. Too many men have fooled me before.
Fuck you very much, Isaac and DWs.
The thing is, even if I decide to ignore my issues with fuckboys, what really matters right now is my mom. I can’t intervene on her chance at happiness. Not again.
I have my holidates and a perfectly good vibrator that can take care of my tingling parts. So, I avoid his offer.
Me
Tequila is the worst!
Ben
Drink that Gatorade. And next year, stick to Irish beer and fish and chips.