Mr. One Night Standing-Room-Only: Part 1

"Um... I was actually kidding."

"Amy.... why? Come on, I'd do it for you!"

"K, there is no way I'm actually going to call that kid up, tell him I'm pregnant and need $300 for an abortion. It's just... no."

But we're both cackling a little. It's around 4 in the morning a couple of weeks ago and my best friend K and I are sprawled out on the dining room table of her gorgeous waterfront Miami apartment. Things are funny at 4 in the morning that never seems quite as clever at 4 in the afternoon. My hair has gotten all greasy and my eyeliner is halfway down my face. It's been a long night.

"He deserves it though," trying to pound on the table emphatically and knocking over a shopping bag filled with double-D Victoria's Secret bras. Eyeing them and deciding not to bother picking them back up. "He's such a freak, he owes you."

"I'm not saying that, karmically, it wouldn't be good for Mr. OneNightStand to give me $300. I'm just saying that it has very little to do with my car getting towed and our needing $300 to get it back."

Giving me a last withering glare, and then laughing, K stands up and walks into her bedroom. I follow, and within 10 minutes we're both almost passed out in her bed. I close my eyes, sigh, and think what the hell happened tonight? Car Karma: 3. Me: 0.

Whereas getting dressed for a night out in Gainesville involves putting on a pair of low rise jeans and a cotton tank top, getting dressed for a night out in Miami takes a bit more effort. Checking ourselves in the mirror by the elevator in K's building, we look strangely like sisters. Matching baby doll halter dresses, smoky eyes, tall, dark features, expansive cleavage and long brown hair. (Mine, at just past my shoulders, is business length, but K's qualifies for porn star length -- she could do a topless photo shoot, and with some strategically placed strands, have everything covered.)

When we get to the club, the outside is crawling with people. There are no spots left in the parking lot, and as I turn my car and $12 over to a total stranger in exchange for a ticket stub, tentatively take it as a good sign. Back in high school, K and I had a theory that if we could easily find a parking spot, we might as well go back home because the night was going to be a total bust. If, on the other hand, we seriously contemplated taking a taxi from our parking spot to wherever it was we were going, we knew it was going to be a great time.

K impressively talks and smiles us past the huge line and (huger) bouncer, and we're in. The crowd is oppressive; we shove our way over to the bar, and ordering diet cokes and self-spiking them, start to get a little buzzed. K scans the room for her friends, and seeing a cluster of them nearby, momentarily smiles and then turns to me with the widened, panicked eyes and bit lip that comprise the International Girl Language for: uh oh.

It's Mr. OneNightStand.

Honestly, I don't really care. An acquaintance of K's, we had hooked up a while ago, had a good time and pretty much left it at that. I have no hard feelings about our lack of communication and am indifferent about running into him again. It's clear, though, from the way he greets me with a stiff wave conveniently shielding his eyes from mine that he feels a bit awkward.

Oh my god, that girl is stalking me, I can hear him thinking. I know I'm a stone cold fox, but can't she just move on? I have to get out of here. She drove for hours just to see me.

This is so far removed from the truth it's laughable. Hello? I came to Miami to hang out with my best friend, and I had no way of knowing you were going to be here! And if I did know, I definitely wouldn't have followed. A little bit of awkwardness is understandable, but his complete lack of social skills is leading me to believe that in order to have sex one should be licensed -- having to undergo stringent personality tests, an etiquette class, an ego check and perhaps a gym membership.

At first I'm kind of amused by his blind terror, and have no intention of making his night by situating myself in the corner farthest from him. But as the night wears on, his tangible discomfort starts grating on me.

When I come back from a trip to the bar, I find K by herself. Apparently Mr. OneNightStand and friends wanted an early night.

"Which is understandable, you know," K says to me as we make our way to the roof of the club, hoping to find a less crowded spot. "I mean, I'd probably freak out too if a hot girl I hooked up with was nice to me. It would obviously mean she was in love with me and was trying to trick me into marrying her."

I gag a little on my drink and shake my head, smiling. Why do guys think they have a monopoly on casual hookups? So many of them think that if they have sex with a girl, it means she wants to date them. Then the paranoia kicks in and the guy will avoid the girl at all costs, completely shutting themselves off to the option of having a new friend or hookup buddy.

"Better off with your vibrator," I drawl as I finally spy an available space on the arm of a sofa on the no-less-crowded roof deck and sprint towards it.

"Excuse me," a refined Hispanic voice nudges as I sit down. "I have reserved this sofa, and one of my friends needs a seat." I look up at the sparkly girl wearing the is it a skirt? is it a headband? who is tapping her silver stiletto-ed foot at me and feel myself flush with acute embarrassment. But really, why would someone reserve a tiny sofa, and more to the point, how much would they pay?

K is smirking at me, and missing the point, I start to brood about how much I hate Miami. Opening my mouth to start complaining, I'm thankfully cut off.

"So about that vibrator..." It takes me a second but then I'm with her. "I'm kind of curious. Want to go help me pick one out?"

Briefly surveying the club, I grin and we make our way back to my car.

* * *

Part 2 to follow!

Previous Engagements

Two and a half years ago, when a good friend of mine announced she was engaged, I was appalled. For about two seconds.

"Oh yea... wow... congratulations. Have you um... set a date or anything?" Snickering. Not a chance. Come to think of it, I'd known several couples in high school so madly in love that they'd gotten engaged for about six weeks.

"July second." Less than a year away. Oh my god. Back to being appalled.

My friend gabbed away about reception halls and the fact that her brother would probably try to score with at least two of the bridesmaids while I smiled and nodded and wondered what the hell my problem was. Her then-fiancee is a great guy, they'd been together for several years, came from similar backgrounds, they would both soon be college graduates and would probably have four children and be together for the next 60 years. I had nothing against marriage per se, but always thought about it in a distant mortgage-paying, baby-wiping, nine-to-five kind of way. This was the girl who had, the weekend previously, gone shopping with me to buy about a yard of leopard print fabric and a bikini top to wear to a frat party. The girl who bought me purse-sized airplane bottles of coconut rum and who was openly disappointed with me if I didn't have anything juicy to tell her on Monday mornings. Why would she give all that up?

Eventually getting over myself, I've become fairly blase about the string of friends and acquaintances who have gotten engaged and married over the past couple of years. Until last week, when three of my friends got engaged. Two on the same day.

"Three?" My mother is unimpressed when I call her in moderate hysterics. "Maybe it was New Years' Resolution."

"What? To make me feel inadequate for not even having a boyfriend? Why would three guys I don't even know make a resolution to fuck with me?" Although I said the last two sentences only in my head.

Wait a second, was I jealous? How did I go from being disgusted by the thought of lifelong commitment to a little envious of the security? But it's not like I haven't been with any guys before. And as my mother moved on to telling me about the new sofas she wanted to buy, my mental slide show kicked in.

There was guy who, for a long time, I honestly thought was The One. He would look at me with an expression suggesting he couldn't believe his good luck to be next to me. We'd ask each other important questions about life and tell each other secrets until we were too tired to talk. Going to the beach or the movies with a group of other friends, everyone hated to be around us. We never made eye contact with anyone else.

There was the guy who didn't have to say anything. After meeting me once, he decided he liked me, and told all my friends, told me. Initially not understanding how anyone could feel something so suddenly, he wore me down with persistent smiles, hand-holding, kissing. He made me understand what it was like to be still and happy and uncomplicated.

There was the guy who knew me even before we met, because we felt identically about everything. Finding out new things we had in common every day, we would laugh about it when really...

"Amy, are you still there?"

"Wha? Oh, yeah, sofas. The brocade definitely doesn't mesh with your beach theme. Listen, I have to go. I'll call you later."

I'm not a romantic. The One turned out to be completely immune to me once he crossed the state line to go to school, and even our friendship ended several years after the intimacy did with a screaming fight, an ultimatum and unanswered e-mails. Mr. Happy eventually drove me crazy with his lack of communication and the other guy proved himself to be a bit too much like me with his biting comments and unforgiving attitude.

Still though, I have some great memories, and others with different guys. And with friends. And family. And just myself.

So I've decided I'm not jealous of my friends' fiancees. And my feelings of inadequacy aren't coming from not having a boyfriend. I am a little jealous that my friends know enough about themselves to commit to being with another person for the rest of their lives. I'm often confused because I'm not sure how I feel about things, or don't know what I want the future to be like.

But maybe the uncertainty is what makes it fun right now. Maybe I'll throw rice and make toasts and let someone else catch the bouquet, smirking because I don't have to have all the answers yet.

I've got time.

EDIT: Keeping With the Theme

Rereading this post, it feels a little too positive. This is, after all, supposed to be eloquently cynical. So here's the coda, a poem I read recently by Dorothy Parker.

Unfortunate Coincidence

By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying --
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.

Very Professional

One of the benefits of being an upper-level college student is that all of your classes tend to be in the same building. Gone are the days of having to book it halfway across campus from my biology class to my completely unnecessary but required American government discussion section. For the past year, the most I've had to do is climb the stairs and occasionally cross the street. I like it like this.

As my credits accumulate, my circle also shrinks. There are more than 40,000 students at my school, with approximately 650 public relations majors, but there are four or five of us who are always, randomly, in all of the same classes. I like this too. We're friends. With one exasperated look, I can convey to them, who the fuck is this guy? Not every media law case is about porn. A single eyebrow raise says will that dumb girl ever wear more than spandex running shorts and a sweatshirt to class? She looks like she's naked.

Sprinting towards the finish-line for my B.S. in PR, I seem to have stumbled over a couple of courses I tried to forget I had to take in order to graduate. So it was with extreme doubt and a hesitant expression that I crossed the street, turned the corner, ascended the steps and yanked open the heavy glass door of the liberal arts building.

My first thought, upon entering my English elective class titled Modern Drama: DOING IT and situating myself in a desk towards the back corner of the room, was: who are these people, and where do they shop? The public relations department seems to have an unusually high concentration of really good-looking people. More than that, they are all super-groomed. Falling somewhere between preppy and trendy, we understand the value of wearing full make-up and high heels to class. And what's with the hair? This class is midday, surely you had time to shower and blow dry it? Don't you people know that you can buy a straightening iron for less than $30? The times when I choose an extra half hour of sleep over hair care, I always regret it, if only because of my insane jealousy over that girl's perfect bangs, or the other girl's gorgeous new highlights.

All public relations classes begin in the same way. The students assemble in the classroom at least 10 minutes early and flick through various magazines and newspapers while adjusting their lip gloss, checking their vibrating cell phones while rolling their eyes and clicking 'ignore,' gossiping with girls in their sorority or flirting with the token cute boy, and generally giving off an air of smug confidence. Then, also immaculately groomed, the professor enters, throwing down his plush leather brief case (or, in some instances, her oversized Coach tote) and accessing the PowerPoint presentation he's put together. Attendance is taken aloud, and if anyone is marked absent, the class ripples, collectively wondering where the hell this person is. After all, we are all Very Professional. The professor begins a long monologue about his or her extensive educational and professional background, often engaging in vicious name-dropping. Far from being offensive or off-putting, we have all come to expect it now, and an absence of bragging sets off bubbles of doubt regarding a teacher's credibility. Usually, the teacher will then specifically ask each student what his or her goals are for the class, his internships, his career, his life, in which city he wants to live and whether or not he's in it for the money. (He is. Actually, we all are.) Then, lecture can begin in earnest, punctuated by lively discussions because we all want to Kick Ass.

Modern Drama: DOING IT began with a 70-year-old man bounding into the classroom, slamming the doors shut and proclaiming his love for all of us ("my babies!"), the written word, the theatre and extremely liberal politics. Appointing a class "censor" to warn him when he was going too far into a Bush-bashing rant, he skipped bragging and launched straight in to telling us stories about his life. I, however, had missed a step. Dressed in faded jeans, a too short t-shirt and old sneakers, my instinct was to call the campus police and inform them that a bum from Turlington Plaza (a.k.a. activist central/advocacy corner/crazy people hangout) was attempting to teach classes and should probably be sent to sleep it off in a cell up in Starke. Or at least sent to SuperCuts to fix his mop-like iron gray bob.

When did I become this judgemental? It's an important question; one that is partially answered as I doodle Greek letters in the margin of my notebook. But I can't really blame the sorority; it's more of a magnet for already polarized young women. Maybe it's just a facade though, and I can't help but become interested as I hear stories from this man's life.

Apparently, this professor is a civil rights activist, and marched with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. for several years. He's been through riots; attacked with tear gas, cattle prods and guns by ignorant, bigoted people. He runs a theatre program for underprivileged children, and never wants to retire. He leads the class in a meditation exercise he learned from Dr. King, the upshot of which is that it's the process, and not the results, that matter in life. It's about learning to enjoy experiences, and take things slowly.

As the class ends, I feel a bit calmer than normal, a feeling that lasts until I enter my next class, a public relations one in which the professor calls roll by reading off everyone's resumes, which she has previously researched.

I love public relations, and all of the crap that comes with it. I'm fairly sure I don't want to be a touchy-feely English major, and I know I'll never be one of those zen-like happy people who loves the world and walks at a slower pace. But, I think the point is that you can't exist in isolation. The "real world" isn't divided into academic buildings, and that's a good thing (Martha).

Maybe good hair isn't essential, but it sure as hell helps. I've got to find that happy medium. Do they sell those at J. Crew?

Shoes

This video is like a train wreck: I can't look away.

Photo-play

I am one of the messiest people you will ever meet, and I'll do pretty much anything to avoid cleaning, organizing or packing. So naturally, while trying to avoid packing for going back to school, when I came across a box of photographs, I paused to sort through it.

Before the advent and accessibility of digital cameras, my mother had a proclivity for taking stacks of pictures and not developing them for up to 10 years after their capture. It is obvious from the contents of this box that she either felt particularly motivated or had a great coupon for developing film, because I range in age from about four to 16 in the pictures.

Snap. I'm 16 and at my junior prom, wearing a floor-length bronze princess-style gown and elbow-length black gloves that I bought at Claire's. I'd bought my dress six months prior to the prom, and if I was having a bad day, I'd lock myself in my room, put it on and literally jump up and down. My best friend C is standing next to me wearing a dress in a similar style and white gloves. My date is her brother, who I have a huge crush on, but who sees me as just a friend. I'm smiling ecstatically, like I can't imagine anything better than that moment.

Snap. I'm four or five, playing on the beach with my two sisters. We're all crouched around a bucket, overturned and concealing what will surely be a crumbly sandcastle. Crumbly because my older sister L is giving a heavy-handed demonstration on how to get the wet sand out of the bucket. What I admire about L is her consistency; 16 years later and she's still telling me how to do it right. My little sister, A, is the happiest. In most photos, she looks like she's about to laugh; excited just to be there, her curly blond hair is frizzing in a cloud around her, and it suits her. I'm in the middle, a little obscured, with a look of intense concentration.

Snap. I'm 15, before the homecoming dance, bent into what I think is a seductive pose, trying to get my mother, who is taking the photo, to laugh. I haven't figured out yet how to style my hair, so it's wavy and a little wild, and accidentally looks great. I haven't figured out how to pluck my eyebrows either, so my would-be come-hither gaze looks more like a fierce growl. Despite the aggressiveness of my face, I look like I'm about to break. Still in denial about my anorexia, my collar bones jut sharply from papery skin. My hip bones are visible in detail and my brief dress shows impossible legs. My thighs have deteriorated to nearly the same size as my calves, and combined with the high heels I'm wearing, the look is almost comic in its proportions. I'm smiling with my mouth closed.

Snap. I'm five, wearing a black jumper, white tights and black mary janes. My arm is broken, and in a sling. I'm at the playground, and I want to hurry up and get the picture taken so I can go back to playing. The photo almost looks like I'm in motion because I'm so energetic and impatient. I can envision myself running around, not too concerned about my arm at all.

What edgingly bothers me about these pictures is the disconnect I feel from myself in some of them. It's been years since I've spoken to C, a friend who once knew everything about me. I'm jealous of my broken arm, and the girl in the photo who is totally confident that she'll be okay; a girl who doesn't yet know what it's like to be undermined by the insecurity of constant pain from an injury.

I feel anchored, though, looking at myself being silly before homecoming. When I look at the picture again, I see determination; a look that's mirrored on the beach in 1989. Flipping through these and the other pictures in the box, there are moments captured that I no longer remember, with friends who I no longer see. Spying flashes of myself in moments of honesty, though, gives me confidence about the future. The feelings don't change, just the circumstances.

How does that song go? Everything will be all right.