Thursday night with the girl of my dreams

Of course I picked the café with the downed wifi. It’s my negative state of mind, I tell you. Trying to roll with the punches—I shall not be deterred. Focus on this instead of that. My coffee was a little off, a little less delicious than normal. So was the muffin. They didn’t heat it up enough. Everything can be wrong if you look things in the wrong light, which I have the tendency to do. I need a new looking glass.

I also need a new motorbike. I’ve been saying that for a while. I love my bike, but it’s time to start seeing other people. I want to part on good terms, before I start to feel stuck and blame it all on her. Lately, she had been driving poorly. There was a loose wire somewhere and the electric was hit and miss. Also turns out she had some water in her carburetor. Poor thing.

My mechanic attended to her yesterday. Cleaned the carburetor and gave her a new battery. She’s running better, but there is still something amiss. That clicking sound is driving me crazy. I also just pulled into a pharmacy, pulled out the key and the engine was still running. Hmmm. put the key back in, turn on, turn off, wait and finally she shut off. Came back out, put the key in and the right signal light was on. Tilted the bike to the right and it turned off. Tilted left and it went back on. Sigh.

I figure when I get a “real” bike, I’ll appreciate it that much more. It’s like having a normal weekend after having a 1-day weekend the week before. It’s still not enough, but you appreciate that extra day sooooooo much more. I figure having a bike with fewer faults will be like a dream compared to one that always seems to have an issue—even if she has taken me reliably from point A to point B for nearly a year. You need a cold shower every now and again to really savor the hot ones. You need to experience some low points to revel in the high ones.

……………………

And here I am, nearly a month later, trying to pick up where I left off. Back at the same café—across the park from my street—eating yet another coffee and muffin. This time there were no complaints. Only maybe that there weren’t enough of either. But sufficiently filling they were. The only complaint I have is that I’m not getting to the café early enough. I prefer morning sessions, say 10am, not 1 in the afternoon. I took a wrong turn last night. That’s my excuse.

I was going to call it a night at 2am, relatively early for a Thursday (my Friday) considering I had just finished work at midnight. Still winding down I was, but I considered saving the fun for the next evening. I was a little indecisive and took a detour past a bar, which I have become well acquainted, to see if “she” was there. Surprised to find it open and her still working, I sat down for a pint of some pretty appalling local lager. She seemed remotely happy to see me, which reignited the flame that I thought might have been extinguished.

We chatted and I jokingly (but seriously) asked her to come back to my place. As you do. She had actually brought it up first a few months ago, but with the added disclaimer—no boom boom. I hesitated and when I came to my senses hours later she reneged on her offer. You snooze, you lose. This wasn’t a paying situation. This was more of a persistence pays off type situation. And well, maybe she was trying to figure me out. See where I live, see if I’m a “good guy”—see if I’m capable of supporting her and her family. I’m not capable in case you wondering. I don’t make promises and I don’t tell lies, but I do legitimately like this girl. Have for a while.

I sat there in disbelief after she nonchalantly replied “Ok.” She’s having some fun, I thought. This girl has never been so “easy.” I waited for the chuckle, but it never came. I wanted her to be comfortable so I threw in the same disclaimer she had months before. No boom boom, I whispered. I couldn’t believe my own ears. But really, I was ok with that since just being with her was enough. Sort of. I wanted to inhale the lingering perfume and the scent of whatever shampoo residue was in her hair. She finished at 3am. I could wait.

I (mistakenly) ordered another draft beer just to pass the time. 3am arrived and she had disappeared. I half expected not to see her again. This wouldn’t have been the first time my hopes were dashed, but she did come back. Yay! She had been brushing her teeth or something. I paid my bill and wandered outside wondering how we were going to do this. She motioned for me to go. Go where? I drove down the street and parked halfway down, out of sight for the most part. I rested my head on the handlebars and looked up occasionally to make sure she wasn’t sneaking by.

Eventually she came back on her motorbike, hair blowing in the breeze. All slow motion like the movies. She had slipped into something more comfortable. Damn, I was hoping she was going to do that at my place. She was ready to rock n’ roll. We drove silently in the direction of my house, with her occasionally taking the lead. What are you doing, ya fucking idiot…you have no idea where I live. She seemed a bit cocky behind the wheel.

I made sure to zoom ahead and motion prior to making turns so I didn’t lose her. That would have been a waste of two draft beers and a couple hours of sleep. The horror! We got to my house, parked the bikes, locked the gate and climbed the stairs. Finally, a girl who didn’t complain about climbing three flights of stairs. Not that any girl has ever done that. She came in and immediately started eyeballing the furniture. You live here? Alone? How much you pay? Too much. As I’ve had to say to myself silently before, shut the fuck up.

Poking around some more, you have air conditioning? Not seeing it at first, she was momentarily dismayed until she saw it hiding up in the corner. She motioned with her lips to turn it on, which translated to crank that shit on high. Fuck, it’s not even hot, but whatever you say. I was whipped. She looked around even more. No tv? Fuck. I showed her where it was hiding —behind the clothes drying rack and under the yoga mat. I haven’t turned it on in months and I really hoped not to see it flicker into action tonight.

Turns out it was just a question. It was time for bed. She was already in her pajamas—the same clothes she was wearing— and motioned toward the bed. Sleep. I took a final piss and came to join her. It was like an elementary school sleepover. We held hands and I got high for a minute. I inhaled the toxins in her hair and I snuck a kiss. She didn’t like that. Sleep! Alright, alright, but that’s no fun. I tried, but I’m no good at sleep. Especially not when there’s an attractive lady next to me.

I tossed and turned and tossed some more. I got up to use the toilet. That second beer! I tried to sleep again to no avail. I could only see her lying there like sleeping beauty while the bags grew bigger under my eyes. I could only focus on the air conditioner making funny noises. I usually wore earplugs. I also usually slept with my head between both pillows. Tonight I didn’t have that luxury. Dammit, this pillow is too big! It’s too cold! The mattress is too slanted!

It was getting late, maybe six or seven. I had to pee again. I was started to get angry. Not at her, but at my inability to fall asleep. My fault for inviting a pretty girl to have a “sleepover.” Who does that? I took my earplugs, my pillow and a spare comforter into the living room. And I set up on the floor. Put the couch pillows on the floor and closed off the space with my laundry rack so I wouldn’t feel “naked” lying there exposed in the middle of the floor. I checked Facebook and did the online crossword before hiding my laptop in the kitchen cupboard. I contemplated jerking off into the kitchen sink, but thought that was little dirty and then tried to sleep, alone, again.

She woke me up at 11. She kind of scoffed at me as I lifted my head, drool stuck to my cheek. What? There was still some misplaced residual anger. Go away, I thought. That’s precisely what she was doing. She rattled off some Khmer, which I was not in the mood for. She asked, I think, if there was a lock on the gate downstairs. Huh? She said it again even faster, as if I might get it this time. I don’t know, I mumbled. She put on her dirty fuzzyheaded slippers and shuffled out the door. Better than heels I thought. At least she doesn’t look like a prostitute.

I laid my head down again, with relief, and then quickly thought I ought to accompany her downstairs. I wiped off the drool, slipped on some shorts, a baseball cap and my flip flops to catch her with just enough time to open the gate and say goodbye before she skedaddled on out of there. I barely had enough energy to mumble bye. I wearily walked back past my landlord and his family having breakfast—ok, lunch—who undoubtedly thought a transaction had just taken place. I don’t give a fuck anymore. 

Went back to sleep for a minute—barely able to contemplate what had transpired over the past eight hours even though I had been awake for most of it. I rubbed some collagen into the bags under my eyes, tweezered out the gray hours and put on my Sunday best—a pair of shorts and a t-shirt—on a Friday to take it all in. There wasn’t much to analyze. I went home with ‘the girl of my dreams’ but failed to fall asleep to have more of them. A memorable experience for all the wrong reasons. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemies.

The evolution of a shitty mustache

Every once in a while, I get this foolish notion that I should grow a mustache. I should not. It's not about trying to look better because let's face it, not many people look better with a mustache. It's more about being tired of looking at the same face day after day after day. Need a soul patch to spruce things up a bit. Or sideburns or a beard or a mustache. Problem is I can't grow sideburns or a beard. So there aren't many options aside from getting a tattoo on my face, lip augmentation, a nose or eyebrow piercing or dying my hair. Honestly, I prefer less permanent alternatives.

I grew my first 'stache late last year at 36 years of age. Not long after my brother had participated in a monthlong grow-your-stache-for-charity. It wasn't Movember. I said hey, I want to try that! I had never tried before because I was fairly certain it would look like someone's genitals on my face. Let's face it, nobody wants that. Well, I suppose people do, but not when you're out in public. Anyway, I was in a place where it didn't hurt to try and so I grew it. It looked pretty awful at first, was hard to even notice and caused significant personal anguish. I tried my best to thrust that aside. Eventually the hairs grew longer and it filled in the gaps. It was almost passable.

The early days were laughable.

Oops, missed a spot.

If only...

Eventually I tired of seeing it in the mirror every day and I grew overly self-conscious of my 'stache. It pervaded my thoughts. Should I shave it? Should I trim it? Should I let it hang over my lip? Give it one more day. The next day I'd stare at it some more pondering its fate. It had been about 50 days. It was itchy and it was drawing the wrong kind of attention. I had to be careful talking and joking with kids.. Look at that guy with the mustache talking to children! Definitely didn't need any accusations. In the end, the over-analysis drove me crazy and I shaved it off in a fit of rage. I felt bald for a minute, but refreshed. The skin above my lip looked like it had missed being kissed by the sun.

I actually like these shots, but to be fair, I didn't really look like a porn star..

Freshly shaven. Renewed, but it felt like I had lost a limb.

Some time went by—perhaps a month—and I thought maybe I'd grow the 'stache again. I don't know what I was thinking. I was just bored. It didn't last as long the second go round, but I went through the same emotions as before. Probably would have been better off shaving my head, but the 'stache experiment was both a test of my patience and to see how self-conscious I really was. Turns out I'm not very patient and I'm quite self-conscious. But I already knew that.

Fast forward another few months and there I was trying it again, trying to be alternative or something. I don't think I made it a month. I just started getting angry and eventually threw in the towel. You need reassurance when growing a 'stache and it isn't every day when people are dropping compliments about a mustache. I was complimentary to other mustachioed gentlemen, but that's only because I became more aware of a quality mustache just by trying to grow my own. I realized what it took. Strength. Courage. Patience. Determination. I know I wasn't blessed in the facial hair department, but that has its perks for the most part. I go through far fewer razor blades and my morning routine is more simplified.

I was facial hair free, the way I should be, for the greater part of six months when all of a sudden the urge to grow a 'stache arose again. It was almost that time again when my brother would again be growing his 'stache for charity. I thought I'd get a head start. I started by just not shaving and proceeded for a couple weeks with what would have been deemed as a shitty goatee. When my chin started bearing resemblance to a scrotum I decided to shave leaving just the 'stache and soul patch. The sole patch was a crutch that allowed me to keep going for a few more weeks. Then I shaved it and rocked only a shitty 'stache, which I regularly trimmed to get the whiskers more or less the same length.

The "goatee" stage.

Yes, my shirt says "Babes." Probably didn't see that cause you were admiring the 'stache.

It was good timing with the 'stache. I had recently started feeling asexual and now with the 'stache I didn't seem to mind even less attention. I still found some women attractive, but without the corresponding arousal. It was like I was hibernating. I'd shrug my shoulders and think something wasn't right, but surprisingly it was nice to go out and essentially have zero interest sexually in anyone. I figured there was just a kink in the hose. That one day, after an abundance of oatmeal, an enormous shit would release the pressure on that particular pipe allowing the testosterone to flow freely again. Actually, it wasn't that. I just grew tired with women, particularly here, and everything being about money. Major turn off. Made me sad and I just wanted to disengage.

Meanwhile, the 'stache was starting to look better, but only on webcam.

Back to the story at hand. I went out and took the 'stache with me. Everywhere I went. The ladies were not particularly enthralled with it. The girl of my dreams pointed at it, made a face and said clean! You can wait, I said. I started feeling older with the 'stache and my confidence was waning. I only really liked how it looked on my grainy webcam with a hat pulled down low. Then it looked like I was just having fun. Like I wasn't taking myself too seriously. But as I do, I started getting way too self-conscious. Again. A girl gives her friend a funny look and I know immediately they're definitely talking about me. A guy at the gym looks at me and snickers. It's definitely the fucking 'stache.

Started blaming everything on the hairy upper lip.

Only liked it with a hat and this expression, which could not be held extended periods.

Meanwhile, my brother, who had started his 'stache-for-charity, was already sporting a superior 'stache despite me having a one month advantage. My ego found this slightly depressing. But as he later said, you got the hair on your head, I got the hair everywhere else. Lucky me! Or something to that effect. I was going to try and get through the end of November or Movember as it has been called for 10 years according to the official website. Wow. 10 years? Who knew? Apparently "Mo Bros" (those taking part in Movember) start the month clean-shaven. Having just read that, I don't feel bad about shaving prematurely. I would have been cheating! Big sigh of relief there.

My brother's mustache for charity. At least it looked like he had fun doing it!

Anyway, the 'stache is gone and I don't regret it for a minute. I've always been one to simplify my life. The less things you have, including facial hair, the easier it is to manage. Unless of course you take away the roof over my head, my motorbike and my wallet, which would obviously be cause for struggle. I'll leave you with one final pic—the straw that broke the camel's back. Wasn't quite the look I was going for and it was enough of a catalyst for me to bust out the razor a month early and end this charade. The other catalyst was, well, I'm not feeling asexual anymore. The kink in the hose seems to be gone. You don't play the game with a mustache unless you are Burt Reynolds or Tom Selleck—and neither of them am I.

Mustache be gone!