One way, I guess, would be to go out to Washington Avenue at midnight wearing a purple tube dress that falls just below one's ass, five-inch red heels, matching lipstick (also five-inches thick) and giganto hoop earrings. Another way would be to hang out at a local South Philly bar doing shots of tequila and tying cherries in knots with your tongue while wearing a cut-off Phillies tank top, stone-washed short shorts and sneakers with white socks. The third way that I know of is to write about a friend of mine who shall remain nameless who has made a deal with me that he will take me away for a weekend if I write a blog post that reflects his awesomeness. But I'm not sure how much I can honestly write about him without being too personal. And since my mom reads this blog and since you never know what fifth grader girls might be searching the web looking for tips on how to "tie cherries in knots," I am reluctant to give full disclosure of any adventures I may have had with the aforementioned person.
One thing I remember is that we used to employ this acronym: "DWD." DWD stands for "Dumb with Desire" which is how I often felt around him starting from the first second we met. I can't say for sure why...Maybe because he is a poet and sweet and because he spoke fondly of his golden retriever, Maggie. All I know for sure is that most of our relationship centered around both of us trying very hard not to touch each other because it was wrong; because we had to work together and hang out together and because we both had a masochistic streak where it was more exciting not to do anything and to just wonder. We wondered for an entire week what it would be like if we did more than let our knees touch underneath the table at Zeno's. Then I managed to get him back to my apartment where I somehow got him to sit still long enough to watch Moonstruck. We sat as close as possible on the futon as we could without touching and pretended to be really entertained by the movie when really, the only thing I could focus on were the three centimeters that separated my skin from his. I can't recall how I maneuvered to change that proximity, maybe I stood up to fix the TV antennae and faked a sudden knee injury in order to fall on the floor and be like, Oh, shoot, my bra just fell off and so did my panties! How embarrassing for me! All I know is we had rug burns the next morning. And never finished watching Moonstruck which was fine because I already knew how it would end.
Do you need more? I have more.