April 11, 2006

Mr. Backside

Posted in Happy Hour at 8:49 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

There we are, at happy hour, sipping cocktails, looking cute, waiting for the cute boys to approach us when out of the corner of my eye, I spot him – the hottest backside in the office, as I had affectionately come to call an attorney that use to work at our office. 

I grabbed my friend’s arm, “do you remember me talking about hottest backside in the office?”  See, I wasn’t kidding; I really did refer to him as that. 

“Yeah,’ my friend slowly responded and turned to follow my gaze. “He’s here.” 

“Yeah, well, duh.”  My friend isn’t the most articulate person, but as you will see, I don’t have much room to talk.  “I think he is looking over here.” 

Now, in an effort to appear smooth, I had looked away while my friend checked him out, so I couldn’t see if he was looking my way.  Still I was fairly certain he wasn’t.   

Why?  Because in addition to having the nicest backside, he has the worst memory.  We worked together for approximately six months.  In addition to that, we had been introduced to each other on a number of occasions.  So, when my good friend told he was looking our way, I immediately assumed it was to check out someone behind us.   

When she noted he was walking over, well I assumed we were standing between him and the men’s room. 

When he stopped and said hello. I was, well, confused.   

Our conversation was brief.  I introduced him to my friend; he mentioned he was thinking about going somewhere else.  My arms were crossed and I nodded my head a lot and I really just wanted him to go away.  So, when he said he was going to go the bar to get another beer, my response, “Well, it was nice seeing ya.” 

It was like when someone says, “Hey how are you?” and you respond “nothing. What’s going on with you?” 

As he walked away shaking his head, and my good friend belittled me for my stupidity, I just stood there, with my arms crossed making all sorts of excuses. 

“What’s the point, he’s a lawyer and from Michigan.”  You see, I don’t date guys from Michigan either. 

“I was just beating him to the punch.”   

But secretly, inside, I was beating myself up.  First, I never take the “Michigan” rule seriously and second, after every other meeting with this guy, I fantasized about just this occasion; when he approached me and I was cool and savvy but instead I was bumbling and awkward. 

Worse, the whole scene, right down to my wool miniskirt, reminded me of that awful show Ally McBeal.  I hated Ally McBeal because it seemed, while Ally was a superior litigator, the girl couldn’t put together two sentences when a boy was around.  And now here I was, an outstanding communicator, fumbling over the English language. 

However instead of admitting there might be some validity to that show, I took another sip of my cocktail, made a crass remark about hottest-backside’s stupid shirt and held my head high.  As if I meant to make a complete ass out of myself.   

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