How to: Not Pee Your Pants. Or Get a Cold: The Series.

About four days ago I got a new tattoo. My first tattoo. I was nervous and excited and...well, very excited. Now I'm itchy. Don't get me wrong, I love glancing at my back in the mirror and seeing black ink stained upon my skin. I really do. *sigh* What was I saying?

This obviously was a big deal for me, for reasons that my psychiatrist (if I had one) would love to explain to you have to do with my deep seeded need for rebellion. Doing things that I know I am not supposed (or expected) to do. I could write here about how I am seen by family as a role model for younger cousins, how they all go on about how promising and good I am. And that being subjected to that is equal parts humbling and suffocating.
But I don't want this post to be a downer.
I also don't like talking about my insecurities on Tuesdays.

So, yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, a holiday I usually don't celebrate. Not that I have anything against it, I just wasn't one for underage drinking. Publicly. Anyway, yesterday I ventured into NYC for dinner and a show at a Broadway supper club. I felt very fancy. Do with that what you will. I met a friend of mine from Boston at Port Authority and we roamed the streets for a good while, dropping in the Disney store and Forever21, talking about how no one, especially myself, wants to see me in a bra disguised as a shirt. I mean, I owe my tits that much.

For the purposes of this story, I should inform you now that when I am with this friend, I am very blunt. And vulgar. But then again, I act that way around most of my friends. 

So we made our way to the club for our 5pm dinner reservation. Which was a good thing, because I was in a skirt and it was about 30 degrees outside. The things we do for fashion, friends. Once seated, we ordered dinner, wine, and talked about life. Caught up on things. Until the alcohol started kicking in. Then we talked about sex. And made everything into an innuendo. And we were just launching into a discussion about how tomatoes burst when you put them in your mouth, and the orgasmic qualities of such an action, when a duo of French men were seated next to us. It stifled the conversation, but not our laughter.

As the show was about to start, the actors lined up right behind my chair, close enough that one of them could have elbowed me in the back. And I would have been distracted by that if not for the fact that someone else had my attention. A certain someone that was making their way onto the stage. A person that I didn't even hope to imagine would show up at the same place that I was last night. I was so surprised, and full of wine and water, that I probably peed my pants. And to answer your question, yes, Darren Criss looked very dashing last night.

Of course, the show was wonderful, the evening was young and as we walked the streets searching for a McDonald's in order to split a Shamrock Shake, we were laughing and stumbling and rehashing the night's events. At one point I spoke (very loudly) about how I had sex with my friend's daughter. Which, in context, was a joke. Also, she doesn't have a daughter. Or children. Wine is so fine...

All in all, it's nights like these that make me happy to be alive. Happy to have the people I do in my life. Grateful to be given the opportunities I have been given. Content. But so much more than just that. Walking the streets of NYC at night with great company and echoing laughter made me giddy. Made time stop for just a moment so I could soak it up.

And then I got on the train and fell asleep.