I felt the salsa drip from my chin as I leaned into my first bite of my third taco. The world around me faded. Time stood still, and I existed in a bubble, devouring the fried tortilla shell glued perfectly in place by a layer of cheese that blanketed some juicy meat. My jaw almost hurt from chewing so vigorously, but if I stopped to take a breath, I’d be left with the reality that I’d just paid for my date’s dinner.
How did that even happen? How had I stepped into the puddle of a mess that made my night one misstep after another? I dipped the sloppy taco into some brown liquid that came in a small styrofoam cup before dunking it into the salsa. A two-step process, but I followed it like an assembly line, knowing I’d regret my decision the next day. The gym would be calling, but it could wait until Monday. Monday would be when I got my life back on track, where I wasn’t wedging myself into awkward moments that seemed to have become my home lately.
Did I really just say that? Did this actually just happen? I’m the type that gets myself into situations without much thought. Sure. Yes. Sounds great. Then, once I’m pulling my car into the chaotic, massive grassy lot with a teen boy flagging down cars to collect the absurd $20 parking fee, I rummage through my purse, mumble a few words under my breath, and pay the fee. Here I am, inching through event traffic into a dark parking lot with no painted lines or order (aside from the boy demanding an outrageous fee to park in a patch of land for only a couple of hours).
So, I parked. I slid from my seat, regretting my thin-sandal selection as soon as my shoes hit the soft earth. Gross. I knew sand would collect between my toes in no time. I walked down the dark grassy lot, remembering the pile of clothes strewn across my bedroom floor from the rush I was in just to make it there. Nothing fits. Everything’s all wrong. My attitude was set before the blinker even ticked into that overpriced lot.
And then an hour or two in, I was sitting next to a sort of stranger, paying for his meal, gorging myself with probably the best tacos I’ve ever had. So a win? I don’t know.
I should’ve never opened my big mouth and tried to be a cordial person. I should’ve sat back expectantly, but I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself that way.
So here we are in 2025, where the girl pays for the guy. And I wonder when I’ll stick my foot in my mouth next. It won’t be long. Until then, maybe I’ll have a few more tacos.
