Hit by a Pitch

Ten years ago yesterday, I got shitfaced and walked into a cheesy Irish/sports bar in Forest Park, Illinois. I walked out with Ben. Neither one of us was in the market for meeting someone that day, but I guess it was one of those things that just can’t be helped.

We stood across a crowded bar and stared at each other. You know how that goes — you look at each other, look away, look at each other, etc. It’s why I am, to this day, a big proponent of meeting people at bars. I’m a strong advocate of the prolonged bar stare.

I’d been drinking with a friend for hours and we’d acquired a chauffeur (if I recall correctly, he was a guy my friend was sort-of dating who possibly resembled Mr. Clean but in a good way, if that’s possible) to get to bar #2. We meant to go to a different bar but were so drunk we somehow ended up at the wrong place. I’d never been there.

2002

At some point I thought the prolonged bar stare was getting a bit ridiculous and, even though I wasn’t in the market for meeting someone that day, I was completely shitfaced, so I approached Ben and started talking to him. I don’t normally do that. I have no idea what I said. It must’ve been awesome.

I was on the verge of a lot of shit that day, to tell you the truth. I had just quit an awesome job and in just over a week would be starting the new job my hippie liberal heart made me take that was probably a terrible idea, not just because of a 50% pay cut I couldn’t afford. I was about to leave my current relationship. I was about to go somewhere during my between-jobs week off to — I don’t know — try to sit somewhere quiet so I could figure out what the fuck I was doing. I had this theory that sitting in a hotel room alone is like looking at yourself under a microscope. I can’t remember if I made that up or read it somewhere, but it was vitally important to me right then.

Until I got shitfaced.

I’ve never publicly told the story of how Ben and I met because, well, it wasn’t neat and tidy. We were both still in other relationships, some more serious than others, I guess you could say. I spent a lot of time feeling bad about that. For a while, I was completely paranoid. Obviously, if I did that to someone else, he might do the same thing to me. For a while, I waited, guarded, for it to happen. I knew I deserved it. But then I finally figured it out. Focusing on what you “deserve” is a stupid, unproductive way to go about life. And maybe he will dump me. Maybe he’ll leave me for someone else. Maybe he’ll leave me for some shitfaced hooch he meets at a bar on a Friday night after mixing records and smoking weed with his friend. Maybe maybe maybe. But even if something like that does happen, it’s not going to be any better because I sat around worrying about it. And whether it happens or doesn’t happen, I’m not really enjoying myself right now while I’m sitting around worrying about it, and I should be enjoying myself because right now, this is awesome. So after a while, I stopped feeling bad and worrying about it, mostly.

We ended up in a car (don’t worry — not mine!) outside my place, making out. I ended up saying stupid things (this is what I do when I’m drunk), like: Hey, I’m going on a trip this week. I don’t know where. You should come with me. A normal guy probably would’ve been all WTF, but somehow, we made a crazy, drunken plan. We would meet at the nearby Borders in a few days, on like a Tuesday or a Wednesday, in the middle of the day. And then we’d go somewhere. Wherever. It didn’t really matter. We didn’t exchange phone numbers. Meeting at the appointed time and place was the only way we’d see each other again.

That morning, I packed a bag and got a pumpkin loaf from the local bread place (road trip food). Even if he didn’t show up, I was going somewhere, wherever. I was so nervous I thought I might pass out. I got to Borders on the early side, because I wanted to get there first. Getting there first gives you power, I figured, because the other person has to come to you. I sat by the magazines and pretended to read something. It might have been about exciting Chicago attorneys. I probably still thought I might be an exciting Chicago attorney one day.

The other reason for getting there early was that I had no idea what he looked like. I thought he was really hot when I met him but seriously couldn’t remember. This was terrifying. I mean, beer goggles exist. I exhaled every time a dude I didn’t think was all that hot passed by and didn’t stop.

Then a guy sat down next to me and handed me the earring I accidentally left in his car. He was hot! But still, what the hell am I doing? This is nuts! We discussed our options (Toronto? Too far.) and settled on the location for our first date: Minneapolis, which I’d apparently heard was delightful in late February.

It’s a good thing I was crazy back then. And that I’d never seen Criminal Minds. Now there’s no way in hell I’d do shit like this. I’d be all hey yo, this dude’s going to take me to a cabin in the woods and pour battery acid in my eyes while playing Michael Bolton songs on an old record player. There’s something to be said for being young(ish) and unspoiled by Criminal Minds and garden-variety adult caution. And there’s something to be said for being shitfaced.