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| We never made it to the frat. |
ordering a salad, because I thought that's what you were supposed to eat on dates (and because I have always been a skinnybitch). I left hungry, but more disappointingly, I left without vodka in hand. Three days later, I trekked through a snowstorm to pick up my payment. Smirnoff. Apparently, I was a cheap date.
That handel created one of the most notorious nights of my college career.
That was probably one of my best Valentine's Days. In fact, in elementary school, I threw up 4 years in a row on Valentine's Day. I'll never forget projectile vomiting grilled cheese and noodle soup in the principal's office. Fourth grade. In fifth grade, I was lucky enough to puke before I left the house, missing my "girlfriend's" mom picking us up for an off-campus lunch date. To be fair, I thought she would grow up to be a lesbian anyway.
Senior year of high school, I broke up with my boyfriend the week before Valentine's Day because I was afraid he was going to outdo me. The next day, my best friend brought me a bag full of gifts he had planned to surprise me with throughout the day, ending in an invitation to his school's Spring Fling. At least I was right. He would have outdone me.
Junior year of college, my friends and I tried to attend a Cupid party at the Jewish fraternity after recreating aforementioned "Handle Night" from paragraph one. I woke up asleep on my friend who was Jewish, but not in the fraternity. So I guess I kind of completed the mission.
I did have one Valentine's Day worth smiling about. I received a heart shaped box full of 50+ McDonald's BBQ sauces the guy had collected for a month. We broke up the next week because surprises gave me anxiety. He now lives with his boyfriend in Portland in a very chic apartment. He's incredibly happy. I'm incredibly happy for him. SO happy for him. Just...so happy.
So, what am I doing this year?
I decided to plan a trip to our nation's capitol to see a boy I fell for at a bar. I will meet his entire family and give him the cheesiest, most thoughtful gift a genius writer like me could think of without drinking myself into a stupor of inadequacy. I will risk everything I have to tell him how head-over-heels I feel in the hopes that he will be stupid enough to match me in said risk of diving head first into what is hopefully the deep end.
And I will blog bout it.
And he will probably think I'm crazy because I did.
And maybe I am.
But luckily, he might be crazier.
There will be vodka.
And as long as I don't projectile vomit, this will be far from the worst.
Tradition,
TJB: Making It
