Maybe Mustache Guy was nervous when we talked the other night and that’s why he rambled on and on. Maybe he’s beyond hot and maybe he doesn’t have a mustache after all.
Maybe I’m losing my mind.
Of course I’m losing my mind. What other explanation is there for joining a matchmaking service?
I’d rather be losing my mind than desperate. Wouldn’t I?
I pull into Beans and Brews and realize that I don’t even know what Mustache Guy looks like. So I call him.
“Hey lady!” he answers. Cringe, shudder. Open mind.
“I’m just wondering what you’re wearing so that I’ll know who you are,” I say.
He laughs a nervous, twittery laugh. “I’m wearing blue jeans and kind of a blue checkered shirt.” You mean like gingham? Like “Sadie Hawkins?” Like you just walked off the farm? “And I’ve got a cheesy mustache.”
AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! I knew it! I knew he had a mustache! He has a big ugly, handlebar mustache and a blue gingham shirt, and I have to sit by him!
I’m being stupid about this. Maybe he’s smart, amazing, charismatic, charming, and funny. Maybe I can talk him into shaving his mustache.
Once I’m inside, I glance around surreptitiously for a blue checkered shirt. I figure that a blue checked shirt will be pretty easy to spot and since I don’t see one, I don’t think he’s here. So I order myself a latte.
As I’m waiting for my coffee, a tall man sporting a mustache and a light blue plaid shirt walks in. We look right at each other.
“Beatrice?” he asks.
“Hi,” we both sort of laugh with embarrassment.
OK so the shirt isn’t blue gingham and the mustache isn’t a handlebar and he’s not ugly at all.
I can do this.
Ha. Mistake number 3,923,620.