Coming Out of the Closet

Real life, made funnier.  Or something…

So Iowa came out of the closet Sunday morning.    Literally. 

Saturday night—the dreaded Valentine’s Day, which I hate with the burning passion of a thousand angry suns—I invited Iowa (Nickname!)to join me and some other friends for a couple of rounds.  He and I had actually hung out and talked more frequently since I’d started exclusively dating someone else.  It was a strange dynamic: we have this great chemistry, but when we were dating, he only called every week or so, and often less.  And he never gave me a heads -up.  If he wanted to go to dinner on Tuesday, he’d text me Tuesday afternoon…  But I digress.  This should go in another entry on what NOT to do when dating a woman you think resembles Natalie Portman. 

So we went out, and as usual, some dude hit on Iowa.  This time, the guy was married, and I’m pretty sure he wanted to talk to Iowa so he wouldn’t have to talk to his wife.  Usually it’s because the guy is gay and wants to get into Iowa’s pants.  Half the time, Iowa gets more free drinks from guys than I do. The dude looks like a brunet Ashton Kutcher, but hotter.  So he frequently gets free drinks. From dudes.   When Don’t-Make-Me-Talk-To-My-Wife Guy bought him the beer, Iowa’s response was, “So I’m getting more play from married men in trucker hats than I am from chicks.  Fan-fucking-tastic.”

All this time, I had been swilling Jack and Cokes with reckless abandon. They were weak, but they still got the job done. I had already forgotten about the muthafuckin’ holiday, and felt just a little tingly.  When I get drunk, I want to play darts, specifically cricket.  Iowa just happens to keep darts in his car, and plays frequently.  Somehow we’d never discussed this commonality before.  More on this in the forthcoming Natalie Portman entry.  At any rate, I cajoled him (which took minimum effort) into coming with me to O’Brien’s for a round (or six) of darts.  We left my friends playing trivia and discussing work.  Don’t-Make-Me-Talk-To-My-Wife Guy was predictably dejected at Iowa’s departure. 

I, on the other hand, was elated.  This was a beautiful development.  Girl was feeling gooooood.  I’d gone shopping that day, and was sporting some sweet Carrie-Bradshaw-worthy heels and a cute low-cut tank top.  I also had on some sexy underwear underneath the bootie jeans.  So I might have verily strutted out of the café.  Okay, I did strut.  Like a bloody peacock. 

We strolled into the smoky-grimy goodness that is a true Irish pub.  What was supposed to be one round of darts turned into three, then into many.  I lost every single round, and was trying to regain my self-respect as a casual cricket player.  This did not happen, although Iowa did invent a new category for me, on the wall around the corner from the scoreboard.  I got marks there when I missed the board completely or the dart bounced off the board.  This category was the first one closed out, pretty much every round.   I found it anomalous that Iowa’s dart skills did not deteriorate with more alcohol.  This somehow seemed like an unfair advantage.  We ended up shutting the place down, which I haven’t done in a long time. 

Iowa was buzzed, and I was tipsy.  Given that he lives practically on the other side of the planet, I convinced him to crash at my place.  Like getting him to come play darts, this was an easy task.  He insisted that he’d sleep on the couch.  Just the image of his lanky self all contorted to fit on my couch was absurd.  It was borderline retarded, especially because there was still a pile of shopping bags at one end of the couch, which I had no intention of moving.  If anyone was crashing on the couch, it would be my lazy drunken ass.  Honestly, I didn’t want anyone to sleep on the couch.  This does not mean that I had any intention of revealing said sexy underwear.  On the contrary, I wanted to spoon. 

I passed out instead.  And we’re not talking that cute, feminine, gentle dozing off to sleep.  We’re talking whistling through the nose and unabashed drooling.  I’d hazard that it was wickedly unattractive, especially given that I still reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke.  Yeah, that’s way hot.  Given that image, it’s needless to say that we remained on our best behavior.  This apparently amazing feat was rendered even easier, because we were both comatose. 

The dog awakened me the next morning with a kindly snout jab to the eye socket.  I felt like shit.  Iowa wasn’t even moving.  I got up, walked the dog, and made French toast.  We ate in relative silence, and Iowa prepared to leave.  And shit hit the fan.  As Iowa moved toward the door, a loud knock resounded through my apartment.  The boyfriend was outside, concerned because I’d forgotten to tell him I got home safely.  I looked toward Iowa, but he was already gone.  In an effort to preserve his boyish good looks, he’d wisely sought refuge in my walk-in closet.  In a matter of seconds, he’d managed to traverse my apartment and camouflage himself with a bathrobe and some semi-clean t-shirts.  And the little aluminum foil bundle was missing from the table–he’d remembered to take his leftover French toast with him! I pictured him sitting atop a mountain of blue jeans and shoes, enjoying the rest of his breakfast.  Marginally entertaining, except my boyfriend had left off knocking (rather quickly, I thought) and was climbing through my window. 

I could have gotten away with this.  I could have acted like I was about to take the dog for a walk, and Iowa could easily have let himself out.  But I’m retarded.  So first, I joined a petrified Iowa in the closet.  Then I freaked out.  I can’t lie.  I ponied up, and told the boyfriend, “There’s a guy in my closet.  It’s Iowa.”

None too happy, he left me, and I rescued Iowa from the closet.  I’d like to say that this episode has some hilarious ending, but to that end, there is nothing else to say, except “I had a man in my closet on Sunday morning!”  

The best part is a bit more poignant: After all that nonsense, after chilling out with my dirty underwear, Iowa is still interested, really interested, way more interested than I thought he was in the first place (Here’s hoping it’s not a thing for the underwear!).  And he wants to spoon.  We’ve had a few “Garden State-y” conversations, and have decided on an ellipses, Braff-Portman style.  For those poor souls who are uninitiated into the marvelous cinematic masterpiece that is “Garden State,” Braff and Portman cannot be together, so they decide that they “take an ellipses,” so to speak; they will leave things open ended until they can work it out.  Braff, however, decides not to bother with that, gets off the plane, and goes back to Portman.  Smart man.  

 Like this paragraph, the ellipses really isn’t a perfect ending, because there is no such thing.  But I don’t want perfect.  I just want to spoon. Lucky for me, Iowa is a damn smart man.