My goal was to be the gracious host, the guy who oozed
charisma. The delay of guests shook my confidence. What if no one comes? What
if Dave doesn’t come? I’d relied heavily on my credit cards to stock up on
food, drink and that party essential—new plates!—to ensure I’d have the perfect
party, one that everyone would be talking about for the rest of the summer.
This would be the party to put me on the Vancouver map and to put me smack in
the center of Dave’s mind. Mutual obsession is so much more satisfying than a
one-way crush.
The problem with two or three or four glasses of pre-party
wine relaxant is that you don’t really know how affected you are until you hear
that distinct slur in your words. Being as I am not one to talk aloud to
myself, I did not detect that slur until the first guests finally arrived. Ashiro
hugged me and found my compromised state to be amusing. He poured a “Cougar
Town”-sized glass of wine for himself and, being as his waifish frame could not
have weighed more than a hundred pounds, I knew we’d be on equal terms in a
mere five minutes.
I showed off my plates and Ashiro dutifully oohed and aahed.
How could Dave be anything but impressed? If he liked my chinaware, he’d have
no choice but to like me. I put a plate in the cupboard—saved for my special
guest.
Each time there was a knock at the door, my heart jumped.
Dave?!
Not Dave.
Still, with guests arriving, I had much more to do than
swigging my wine. And the International Food Court was finally open for
business. I served up drinks, offered appies and munched along with my guests. The
good thing about my wine intake is that it made me chattier and I wasn’t the hopelessly
shy cold fish I usually am. I touched guests on the shoulder or on the forearm,
gestures of warmth. Goodbye shell! I was on a roll.
Graham arrived with his friend Roland who brought along his
new boy toy, Niles, who was still enrolled in some sort of community college
program. Beer for Graham, rum and Coke for Roland. And for Niles?
“I’ll have milk.”
All my planning, all my purchasing and I’d never
contemplated that someone would request a glass of milk at the party. Despite
my overcompensating, I’d come up short.
“Get out! I mean it.” And my newly found physically
demonstrative nature took a darker turn as I ushered poor Niles out the door
with Roland following along.
As I turned around to face my open-mouthed guests, I saw
Dave staring at me—no trace of that sexy smile. Yes, I’d finally caught his
attention. Sadly, it had nothing to do with my plates or any of my fall-back
enticements: charm, good looks, moisturized elbows.
Ashiro said something amusing to take the focus off me and people
went on mingling. Mass exodus averted. But I retreated to the bedroom,
completely shaken by my social flub and by the look of disgust from the man who
would never feel an inkling of longing for me.
Pre-party, I’d still believed I had a chance. After months
of built-up hope, the crush crashed and burned on impact, the result of a
wholesome request from a complete stranger.
I stayed clear of booze the rest of the night and my friends
helped me recover and even find humor in the latest example of my social
ineptitude. Dave managed to steer clear of me before politely making an early
exit with a very cute guy I didn’t know. Guys like Dave didn’t need to give
second glances at guys like me.
I continued to see Dave and his beautiful smile at Saturday
morning step classes, at Delany’s and occasionally in passing on the street. Sometimes
the feeling nervous giddiness returned, a damning reminder of misplaced
infatuation and a time when I foolishly thought I could make an impact with the
right set of plates. It was never about dishes or even a glass of milk. Duckie
didn’t get Molly Ringwald in “Pretty in Pink”. People cover girl Julia Roberts didn’t even get the guy in “My Best
Friend’s Wedding”. That fluttery feeling can be flawed from the outset. It was
never going to end well. I merely fast-tracked that feeling of despair.
As an aside, Roland and his boy toy, Niles, are still
together eighteen years later. For some, milk really does a body good. Not
surprisingly, we’ve lost touch.
I haven’t seen Dave in at least a dozen years. I don’t think
he’d remember The Curious Incident of the Guest Who Wanted Milk. Heck, I don’t
even think he’d remember my name. I still have a few chipped plates on the top
shelf of my cupboard. On occasion, they still stir up memories, not so much of the
horrors of hosting, but of the feelings that preceded that night—the sense of
hope, the belief that a kind, handsome man may notice me in a more flattering
moment, the notion that I might eventually get it right. Sometimes you never
fully shake a crush. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.
