I told you guys all about how awesome my imaginary boyfriend is ... was ... whatever ... sure, but I never expected any of you to actually start seeing him with your own eyes. I honestly don't know how any of this phenomenon happened, but it is uncanny!
Here's where I describe to you in great detail some delicate matters of the heart that most shrink from, likely outing yet another oddball side of myself that will make you all think, "Oh crap! She's doing it again!" Or maybe just, "Oh crap. She's doing it. Again."
This time, however, it's not me; it's you! Yep, all you.
Well, okay ... it's a little bit me. And it's a little bit you, too.
Why am I singing this blog now?
At first it all started out like just your typical outdoor concert, where friends and strangers gather wearing captain's hats like a "Tenille got too much credit!" convention, get completely blotto in the hot August evening, and pretend it's the 70s again, while singing songs they probably only remember choruses to and gyrating around with said friends and strangers. There does or does not have to be a giant inflatable shark nearby with kids sliding out of it, and a she-male passerby giving his/her own dance show with a Shakeweight while her/his tank dress keeps allowing full-on nipple slips.
Yes, I am (almost) entirely certain that we concertgoers were merely tipsy and a little overheated ... nothing else. We all saw these same things and have (varying degrees of) memories of these sights, so therefore we can come to a consensus that these things were real. Right? Right.
And yet I have no explanation for the multiple, independent hallucinations of me in a relationship.
The first reported sighting came when I was flagged away from a great conversation with guy friends about movies and music and farts (I'm adding that last one in, but I'm sure they were mentioned or snuck at some point) by a group of female friends and strangers, who felt they needed to "save" me from the boy talk.
Among these ladies was a drunken former cheerleader, who proudly told us all about how she's angry that her once robust arm muscles turned to pure flab, how her husband is the only man she's ever had sex with, how he ended up with only one testicle, and other topics that I've since blocked. She turned to me in a breath between talking about how long she'd only been having flabby-armed sex with this one man and his one testicle to ask me, "So how long have you two been together?"
I looked next to me ... no one there ... before replying, "Me? I'm single." Then she sloshed her drink in the general direction of the boys and asked, "Isn't that one yours?" I laughed it off, explaining, "Oh no, I'm divorced. He's divorced, too. Not from each oth-." Interrupting me, she slurred, "Well, what are you two waiting for? Get on that!"
I laughed uncomfortably again, as yet another gal from our group walked up, asking if anyone knew how to find the restrooms. I jumped up, exclaiming too robustly, "I do! I have to go, too!"
I really didn't have to go that badly; I just needed a convenient escape.
I trotted off with the second gal -- who was having far less foot-in-mouth issues than I remember her having -- until we rounded the corner to find the line to the women's restroom was three years long. Opting for the much shorter, but more disgusting Port-a-TARDIS option, we joined the other desperate "wizzards" there, where she pointed further up the queue, noting the very same male friend.
Female Two: "There's your hubby going in!"
Me: "Heh, no. We're not mar..."
FT: "Oh, okay. Your honey."
Me: "Hee. Er. No. We. Not. Couple. Er. I..."
FT: "Wow. I didn't mean to embarrass you."'
Me: "...I mean ... he's a friend. Friend of friends. We're both friends. We've many friends."
What was happening to me!? Somehow, English had become my second language! Luckily, my own embarrassing moment got sidelined by that same male friend getting an embarrassing walk-in from another dude because of an unlocked door.
Oh, yes! Let's talk about how important it is that we remember to lock the door! Yes! Whew. Handled that diversion like a champ.
I managed to survive the TURDIS experience only mildly mentally challenged, and avoided the overly inquisitive ladies by returned to hang out with the boys. At least they don't want to ask me about other boys. Or shoes. Or cheerleading. Or flabby arms. Or missing testicles. Well, not usually. Even though I may have said something embarrassing about a pipe fetish, it was still a much more comfortable conversation than the psychological minefield the girls were sure to dredge.
Somehow our group of drunken sailors finagled their way around a table that belonged to an older woman and her son -- befriending them in order to commandeer her table, I believe. At some point, the drunken ex-cheerleader decided to start talking about my boobs ... to the very same person she'd previously thought was my significant other ... or maybe she still did think that? Either way, in my mildly buzzy, but still uncomfortable state, I may have uncontrollably blurted something else embarrassing here, too -- like my cup size -- which may have inadvertently fueled the discussion further. That was my cue to hightail it to the bar and escape awkwardness again. I never set out to order that many vodka tonics over the course of the evening; it really was all the fault of socially awkward situations. Just like high school all over again.
When I returned, the boob talk was over (thank goodness), and only managed to be brought up again 5 or 6 more times that evening. During a lull in the boob and testicle talk, the table-mom/new stranger leaned to me and quietly said, "Your husband is really nice."
[press play; start singing until 0:46]
...It's a little bit me. (A little bit me.) It's a little bit yo-
[press pause; insert record rip sound.]
What? No, I ask you... what? As in, what is going on here?
I momentarily considered that I was being punked ... that everyone was in on it and secretly giggling over how more and more befuddled by this same question I was getting. Then I realized that everyone was genuinely hammered, and it would take someone a lot more sober to pull off that prank. So I decided to relax about it.
How I got next to the one-testicled husband of the drunken ex-cheerleader, I don't know. And how he became almost as obsessed with touching my boobs as his wife was obsessed with talking about them, I also don't know. What I do know is when I turned the grope down, he leaned in and slurred, "Will it make your guy jealous?"
Hey now! Wait. What? How did...? Where is that hidden camera!?
He swore he just assumed we were a couple, that no one said anything to him, but he also added that, since I was in fact single, I should just go with it. The boob grope, that is.
Really? Does this work on anyone?
Time for an escape (not the Pina Colada Song which ironically was never covered, despite it apparently being my theme song for the evening). Another trip to the bar had yet a fourth tipsy gal from our group cherrily saying to me as she passed by with drinks, "I like your new guy!" At this point, I just went with it and chirped back, "Thanks!" If they were going to insist on he and I being an item, I was no longer going to contradict anyone.
I returned to the table -- or rather, was hailed over again -- by two more female friends who do actually know me well enough not to ask the question the others had asked. They did, however, have questions of their own, and they got right down to business.
[highly edited version follows]
Ms. Thing One: "What is going on between you two?"
Ms. Thing Two: "Seriously!"
Me: "Unless you know something I don't know, nothing. Honest! Why is literally everyone asking me?"
Ms. T1: "Because there's a thing between you. It's huge."
Me: "I'm not denying it, but are you sure it's not just coming from me? I have that imaginary boyfr-"
Ms. T2: "It's BOTH of you! That's why everyone sees it. It's PALPABLE!"
Speaking of palpable, if you ever want to feel the simultaneous thrill and terror of what it's like to be in one of those shark cages while the sharks look at you as their overly prepackaged snack, just have some juicy tidbit floating around in your psyche that girls will want to sink their rows and rows of sharp, toothy questions into ... and they will. Oh, they will. All I could do was give them what they wanted. I was more amused at this point than scared, as I realized that everyone was now seeing me with an imaginary boyfriend! I am just that good! Huzzah!
That was my own inside joke. The reality is that once I got over trying to dissuade anyone of their assumptions, I enjoyed being seen as part of a couple. Why wouldn't I? He's cute. He's funny. He's smart. He's my highest match in a 500 mile radius, according to a certain dating site we both use. If he's my imaginary boyfriend made manifest ... even just for one evening ... even just fleetingly as images in other people's minds ... what's not to like?
Speaking of things burned into people's brains, the image of me enthusiastically simulating a naughty act with my tongue and a stranger's lightsaber may continue to bounce around in a few people's thoughts, cameras, and erotic fan-fic message boards for a while.*
And so with that lightsaber fanning the flames of passion and drunken desire, of course you know how this evening ends.
Yes, in traditional She-Creature fashion, I brought him home with me! Wanna meet him? I don't normally mention anyone by name, but I feel this one's going to be around for a while. Meet John...
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| Me to John: "You make my dreams come true." |
I introduced him to the dogs, but they didn't really warm up to him very quickly...
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| Millie to John: "I can't go for that. No, no. No can do." |
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| Bacon to John: "My private eyes are watching you." |
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| John to me: "She's a maneater!" |
*Where the real events ended. Only the lightsaber got any action.
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