I usually don’t go out with my co-workers for an after work drink.
Don’t ask me why, because I sure could use one, more often that I get one.
But I just don’t feel comfortable about getting drunk in front of my co-workers, because, well, when I get drunk then every woman look gay in my eyes – and I tell them so. Plus I just get embarrassing or loud, with no filter at all. Not that I am not loud or tell people what I feel when I am sober, because I do. Just in a more hmm “polite” way?
I don’t know. I just feel that when I a rare time have been drinking, what comes out of my mouth, is less “lady like”, whatever that now might mean, but I quite often feel that I might have to excuse myself the day after. And I don’t really want to do that too often in front of my co-workers.
So surprisingly I agreed to join a few days ago. Think it was Monday, last week.
Yes, I should have written about it earlier.
But ended up post-work half late in a very small and very brown pub with really good (seriously) art on the walls and just as insanely good colleagues and ex-colleagues on the bar stools. And yes, journo’s can be really interesting company. Obnoxious and self-centered sometimes, but interesting with great stories to tell.
It was one of those nights where I firmly told myself that it would be just a single tiny drink and then home. Also, because I didn’t take into account that there are many establishments that do not take credit cards and especially not international credit cards, but only the local debit card. So my colleagues were gracefully allowed to buy everything for me that evening.
It always gives me a lot of guilt to let others pay for me. It’s the fear of being seen as one of “these” parasites that is seeded deep in this lesbian here. But I surround myself with happy, sweet and generous people who think my shame is really stupid. So we became thus somewhat more tipsy than my original plan. And it lasted much longer too.
We talked of course about homosexuality. There always comes a point every time I speak within the alcoholic sphere and / or professional acquaintances when they ask me the question:
“When did you get out of the closet”.
Or said in another way, “When did you know that you were gay”.
It is just one of those questions that comes up when you got a kitschy ceramic figurine of two Dutch milkmaids kissing each other, on your office table. Yes I know it is kind of ugly, but I also think it is cute and does no harm.
Well, not in Netherlands. At CNA or ST it would have been thrown out the moment I left the desk – or I would have been told to pack my things and get the f… out. But my desk is currently not in Singapore.
Plus it works very well as a holder for my hair bands and other knickknack that need a spot to hang on.
Okay, side story…
As I was saying,
I was in the middle of the my first time story, when I noticed that we got extra company.
My colleague and freaking effing K… K as in my ex, MY Swedish ex. K, had come over to our table.
I did know that my colleague had begun dating K., and I should be used seeing an ex with someone else this late in my lesbian life. I mean aren’t we all dating someone’s ex’s in the small circle of lady loving women? But it is K! K with the wonderful hmm voice and perfect body. K, that broke my heart several times over and that I haven’t really heard from in some time, but only exchanged emails with here and there, after a great and stunning relationship that still to a certain degree is haunting me this day today. Exactly THAT K.
I so jealously regret the email that I send to her not long ago.
“Hey K, dear. My colleague is coming to Stockholm, and I was wondering if you could give her a good time there?”
Oh and a good time she gave her.
K. made my colleague dump her bf and is now going to move to Stockholm to live with her. All this in just a few short months.
The move that I didn’t dare to do, when she was posted back to Stockholm after living in Singapore for a number of years, and now she was there in front of me.
K., was not my first and she is not my last – absolutely not my last. But she was the one who I for a long time felt that she was the one. Well, more than anyone else and I still feel that insane heart flutter when I see her eyes and quirky smile again. It’s been more than 4 years and I still felt like an insecure teenager when I looked at her.
She was more than an “let’s move in together and nest” after the first IKEA date. She was the perfect partner to me.
I guess that we all have that one in our life who were the perfect storm to us. Or at least I hope that everyone get to feel that at least once in their life’s. But she was that for me, and only a single perfect other have come close to her, and I don’t dare to let that one get her claws in me like K. did.
Now she was there with my colleague and I couldn’t help feeling jealous in every way possible.
Everyone knew my colleague, who then in return introduced K. to everyone around the table, got some chairs for themselves and sat down, even more cramped than ever with so many people at that small place.
I of course had to remind a colleague of mine to stop staring and act normal, while I tried to act equally normal and brave.
By the way; It turns out that the reason for that art is so good is that hungry and very thirsty artists through time have been able to pay for drinks with wall decor, when money were scarce. That, I think, is a crazy good idea. Actually also a shame – but probably also part of the charm.
But what was supposed to be a single drink, turned out to be several more than I should have, and I ended up with yet again Bambi legs, way past midnight, trying to locate my bed and with a promise of making dinner for K and my colleague before they had to drive back to Stockholm with all of my colleagues things.
In a Volvo of course.
And why did I now promise a thing like that?
Damn, Damn, Damn. I know that I will regret that evening too.