Ok. So after months of fighting it, the inevitable has happened and the real life Carrie Bradshaw has committed. To, yes, believe it or not, Skeevatz Chris, who has become my Skeeve.
Proper girlfriend and all, with my high-necked blouses and dignified gait. I'm smiling like a Crest kid at his scrappy little friends and even considered an attempt at baking. I'm attending poker nights and local band shows that I haven't been to in seven years, at least. His name has found its way into my regular conversations. I wore sweatpants and that England soccer jacket out in the street with unwashed tied back hair and even managed to gain a pound this weekend. His friends have, overnight, become people I'm obligated to be nice to. NICE. I'm experiencing the odd feeling of having to be nice. Half feeling like rainbows and sunshine like the bride on the cake in all her plastic glory... the other half feeling like Cournty Love at an NA meeting.
And here I sit, after poker night with the boys. Oh, steak, chicks, cars, and motorbikes! We discussed it all with crude humor about bodily functions interjected at will! Here, here, let's scratch our crotches and throw back a cold one!
(Beer, correct?)
Right. This man is working up quite a debt. I forsee a long and profitable future of Bergdorf, Saks, Bendels and even Victorias in store for our little darling!!!
Or at least a chance to throw my legs around his neck... no threat of reciprocation, please.
"Well, it's perfectly clear,
Between the TV and beer,
I won't get so much as a kiss,
As I head for the door,
I turn around to be sure...
Did I shave my legs for this?"
-Deanna Carter
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