My nightstand served as a holding tank for the turquoise kidney shaped throw-up trays I'd need over five years of chemo. It converted to a trashcan for all of the Kleenex used to wipe the vomit off my face. It displayed fish tanks, terrariums and cool lamps. It housed the first love letter I ever received. When I moved away from home, my nightstand naturally came with me.
The voice of reason in my head said, "He's not going to be there. And if he's there, you won't get anywhere near him. And if you get near him, you won't get to talk to him. And if you get to talk to him, you won't get to hang out with him. So, don't even bother." Shhh, voice of reason, you bloody killjoy!
Now I have let myself get so far into some evenings before realizing I wasn't into things that there was no chance at all of getting out without looking like a mental patient. I'm weirdly unbothered by this. F*ck it. When keeping it classy goes wrong, you sometimes have to settle for just trying to keep it together. "It" meaning "your thighs."
Pick up any book, read any magazine, or watch any movie targeted toward single women, and you'll pick up a handful of tips on places to find a potential boyfriend: at sports bars, in the frozen food aisle, at closing time at the Laundromat. But they always overlook the man that could be right underneath you: the guy you accidentally brought home last weekend after a makeout session at the bar. Yes, the guy you spent the night with could actually be the one you spend your life with. It happened to me.