So… I did it. I got up the nerve to call him. And, it went about as bad as it could have gone. Seriously. All the while the phone was ringing I was saying that well-known little chant, “please be voicemail, please be voicemail,” and then, just as I thought I was in the clear, “Hello?”
Crap! But I recovered from my pre-planned light, breezy message into friendly easy banter… and… he didn’t have a clue who I was. After two painfully humiliating minutes of trying to jog his memory (tall? brunette? wearing black strapless dress? YOU gave me your number?” — to which he replied, “I did? Well, I’m sure there was a reason…”) Anyway, he finally had a lightbulb moment and actually remembered my last name, but the damage was done. The awkwardness of the whole thing was just too much. We are supposed to go out to dinner when I return from California next week, but now… I mean, it was sooo humbling. But this is so my M.O…. falling for the bad-boy bartender who doesn’t have a clue who I am but who I follow around like a golden retriever.
Maybe I can just use him for sex?
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