Hold the Hummus

One of the many reasons I love my gorgeous but spunky friend *Raleigh is that she tends to look at situations with the same reckless abandon that I do. I emailed her on Monday knowing that V-day was looming down upon us and asked if she had any interest in getting sloshed and telling each other how fabulous we are. Within less than a minute she replied she would host, we were going out, and that there would be dancing. (Like I said, she rocks.) There would be no greasy take out/wine drinking in sweats while avoiding all things lovey-dovey for us; we planned to throw ourselves right into the middle of Cupid’s snow globe and shake that puppy up.

Pan to Valentine’s Day Night and I’m running late to meet Raleigh and the crew she’s assembled at 4th & Swift ,because I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to wear black tights, grey tights, or no tights, and I had a bit of an almost-emergency-room-worthy fiasco while applying a full strand of false eyelashes (I wanted to channel Audrey Hepburn, not look like a caterpillar had crawled on to my face, started spinning its cocoon on my eyelid, and gave up mid-spin to take a nap). Fortunately there is very little that a quick leg shave in the kitchen sink and a vat of Vaseline can’t fix.


I hit a stoplight and take the opportunity to take a deep breath and smooth my hair. I look over to my left and peer at the woman in the passenger seat of the car next to me. She looks miserable. I lean forward to get a look at her beaux (I’m ridiculously nosy like that) and as I suspected, he looks miserable too. Both are starring straight ahead with stony expressions and seem to be desperately trying to teleport themselves somewhere else. I imagine she is cold and frigid in bed and he is taking her out to dinner solely so people at the office won’t think he is a total schmuck. (I also bet that they are listening to Michael Bolton and will order hummus as an appetizer at dinner.) (Don’t get me wrong, I’m a girl that loves a good blob of hummus, but seriously. Yawn.)

The light changes and I eventually find 4th & Swift, warm and welcoming, tucked up on a cozy hill off North across from City Hall East. As I’m dashing in the place (making sure that my dress is not tucked up inside my panties like that one time at the airport), I can’t help but think of the couple in the car and how the ice woman probably would never show up anywhere by herself on Valentine’s Day evening. Even though she looked miserable, I ashamedly wonder if the convenience and reliability of a relationship might be worth it. Would I trade the unpredictability and uncertainty that comes from being single for a guaranteed, but perhaps miserable, hummus-filled relationship?

I’m unable to ponder for long because as soon as I walk into the restaurant, I spot Raleigh amidst the most gorgeous group of people in the entire place. (Have I told you how much I love Raleigh?) There is sweet, adorable Maggie who is the youngest of the group coming in at the ripe old age of 25 and maintaining that level of hopeful naiveté that is appropriate for her age. Then there is Klein, good looking and cocky but refreshingly honest and entertaining (it isn’t until halfway through dinner, after asking Maggie and Raleigh, I discover I have given him a European accent that is typically coupled with such confidence even though he doesn’t actually have one). Raleigh excitedly explains that Klein is “hungry like the wolf” and that we will certainly get to see him in action later in the night. Sloan, Raleigh’s cousin visiting from NYC, is tall, dark and stylish with porcelain skin, a brilliant smile, and easy laugh. I can tell immediately that she is an old soul like me. (I am certain that the eerie ability to recognize a soul like your own is a documented scientific phenomenon). Sloan wins further points in my book when she tells us that she has left her boyfriend back in the City so she can hang with Raleigh for the weekend (my kind of girl). Oh and of course, there is handsome, polite Charlie who cannot get a word in over me, Raleigh and Klein, but who laughs a lot with genuine sincerity and has a mischievous sparkle in his eye. We guffaw through dinner and dessert, telling ridiculously honest stories – one of those rare occasions where the entire group takes an immediate liking to one another – and it feels like we are old friends catching up with one another. Sometime between the first two bottles of wine, my martini, and third mojito, we decide to take the party to the W Midtown.

The W is a bit tame and the DJ leaves a lot to be desired, but we make the best of it. Klein orders a round of mojitos (my kind of guy) and dancing ensues (including my own personal performance to Electric Light Orchestra’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” which interestingly goes - "don't bring me down... gross" and not "don't bring me down...bris" ). There are lots of laughs, a little bit of grinding, and we are all feeling pretty swell about life. Our special misfit V-day group is so entertaining and magnetic even Klein doesn’t go on the prowl (the wolf will have to be fed another night).

Not feeling quite ready to go home, and time pressured by Fulton County’s 2 a.m. booze cut off, we decide to head back to Raleigh’s for a night cap. I mix up a drink I call “bartender’s disgrace” which consists of stoli vanilla, some other clear liquor, pineapple mango juice, and frozen strawberries (the thought of which now makes me dry heave), and we proceed to continue our discussion from dinner on love, relationships, and sex. I imagine we are what would result if one merged the editing scraps from Sex and The City Season One and Reality Bites.

Charlie (who has avoided “bartender’s disgrace” like it was a glass of hot lard and has been pounding waters) senses the party is nearing its finale (I think Raleigh’s light snoring from the couch is a huge clue) and announces he is going to head home. He graciously agrees to drop me off on the way. On the short drive to my house, Charlie finally has the opportunity to speak. We talk about breakups and how being single is really quite awesome when you think about the terrible alternatives that are out there. I get out of the car thinking about how often it is the quiet ones that have the most to say.

As I enter my condo, greeted by dancing puppies, I smile at the stack of presents my mama has sent me for the holiday, and I laugh at the hysterical text message my best friend Katie sent earlier in the evening. I think about the amazing night I’ve just had and I know the resounding answer to my question. There are not enough candy hearts, rose petals or dinner reservations in the world to make me trade places with the ice woman (there may be enough Lindt truffles but that ruins the metaphor).

Maybe there is such as thing as the best of both worlds, but for now, hold the hummus; the single life is hard to beat.

*All names have been changed to ensure that people will continue to hang out with me despite my love of blogging about our escapades.