Bob Loblaw

I’ve had my share of misadventures in the past.  Actually, I’ve probably had 1 or 9 shares.  Now that I’m older I’ve been able to firmly ask the very important following question to those who witnessed my downfall:  

“Why didn’t you stop me?”   

I asked my dad why he didn’t stop me from listening to Dj Irene, donning glittery fairy wings, doing a lot of ecstasy, and dating a very popular Dallas club kid named “Huggy Bear” in my late teens. 

I still don’t remember that guy’s first name, but I remember the look on my dad’s face when I introduced him.   “Dad, I’d like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Huggy Bear.”   I never thanked him for handling that so well.  I think he referred to him as Mr. Bear, but without even cracking a smile.  Bonus points for not letting me close my bedroom door while he was over.  Can you imagine losing your virginity to someone named Huggy Bear? 

Instead I lost it to an Italian named Luca in Venice, but that’s another story for another day.  And that wasn’t a Stealing Beauty experience, either.  The only English phrase Luca knew was “You drive me crazy” but I’m still convinced he was just a huge fan of the Fine Young Cannibals. 

He always replies, “I couldn’t!” and he’s right because it seemed I was adamant about behaving badly in high school and the following years.  No one could have stopped me, not even the Terminator.   

I thought about all of this over the weekend reflecting upon the office Christmas party we had at Ruth’s Chris on Friday night and how I handled myself like an adult instead of a runaway train.   

At an office Christmas party just six short years ago I was snorting coke off of an unnamed porn star’s car key (that’s not a euphemism, thank god) in the restroom of a crowded bar where the company I worked for held their annual Christmas party. 

The company shall remain nameless, but my job there was to market gay porn on the internet.  That night the owner of the company held my hair back while I sprayed cartoon-like vomit all over the floor and fired me days later for comparing my office to hell in my livejournal.  

This year I had four beers, delicious steak, my best friend and boyfriend by my side, and a lot of utensils I wasn’t sure what to use for. 

I washed my hands in the bathroom of the swanky restaurant alongside what I think was a prostitute.  I muffled a sigh of relief. 

We passed Michael Jordan on our way out and I was so close I could see his spindly mustache glisten in the bar television’s glow. 

My mouth was open, and luckily no words came out.   

Six years ago it could have been something like, “I’m wearing your underwear!” or “I’ll bring the toast if you bring the Space Jam!”