Wednesday evening I joined some very lovely ladies and Happied an Hour or two at the Big Hunt in Dupont. What? We were in a divey mood. (Read: 1/2 burgers, bitches!) I’d worked out immediately beforehand, and my gym clothes were ready for a-washin’, so I had them with me in my uber-chic gym bag:
What? I’m being poor economical lately, remember? Anyhoo, I had said bag with me that night, and put it at my feet as we slipped in the booth.
LiLu’s inner monologue: I’m totally going to forget that when I leave. I should put it somewhere else, where I can see it.
Lilu’s actions: Nothing.
We had a lovely evening as we frolicked and tittered about boys and dating and sex and wee pot-bellied pigs (AKA George). When we’d had our fill and were getting ready to take our leave, my foot touched something and I remembered the ‘gym bag’ at my feet.
Lilu’s inner monologue: Crap. I almost forgot about that. I should put a hand on it or something, hold the strap so I have to pick it up when I leave. Maybe it would fit up here on the booth seat next to Lemmonex. I really should do something about this before I leave it behind.
Lilu’s actions: Nothing.
We all paid the check and danced into the night, full of love, laughter, and libations. As I walked home in the drizzling rain, clutching Lem’s umbrella, it never once occurred to me that my arms were lighter than they should be.
Upon arriving home and surprising an only partly-clothed B with our fabulous new gay neighbor (“Hi! Nice to meet you! This is my boyfriend, and yes, he wears boxer-briefs…”), I finally realized that I had (of course) left my borderline-offensive grocery bag of smelly gym clothes underneath the table.
Lilu’s inner monologue: Why am I such an idiot?
Lilu’s actions: “B, why am I such an idiot?” (Looking up the number for Big Hunt…) “Hello, um, I was just at your bar, and I left a… grocery bag… full of… um, gym clothes… under one of your tables.”
Very busy bartender: “You left a what? A shopping bag?”
Lilu: “No, um, it was like, a Giant bag. Plastic. Full of clothes.”
VBB: “I have a silver shopping bag here.”
Lilu: “No, that’s not it, but um, if you find my… grocery bag full of, um, smelly gym clothes… could you just hold it for me? I’ll come by tomorrow.”
VBB: “………………..”
Lilu: “I’m sorry.”
VBB: “Yeah, I’ll put it behind the bar if we find anything.”
So the next day I had a moment to breathe at work, between the job hunting, internet futzing-around, blogging, and some actual work I had to do (blasphemy!). I called over to Big Hunt again…
Lilu: “Hi, um, I left a shopping bag full of… gym clothes… there last night. I was just wondering if it’d been found before I came over to pick it up.”
SAME Bartender, hopefully not as busy: “Oh, yeah… I don’t know, let me see… I have a silver shopping bag here.” Argghhh. Also, kind of wondering what’s in that damn silver shopping bag.
Lilu: “No, my bag is much more… grocery bag-esque. Also, it probably smells. I’m really sorry.”
VBB: “Oh, maybe this is it… deodorant? Pantene conditioner? Grey once-upon-a-time white flipflops? Sports br-”
Lilu: “THANKS! Yes, thanks. That’s it. I’ll be right there…”
Now I get to walk over to the bar, look this poor man in the face, and actually ask for my falling apart grocery bag of smelly, dirty gym clothes, and other personal effects that no other person should ever see. It’s 4 in the afternoon, and already the regulars are stooled up at the bar, talking about the mighty Red Sox’s Wednesday win, of course.
The bartender looks like he’s absolutely thrilled to be there at 4pm on a weeknight, after obviously closing the night before, taking care of the six regulars. Hopefully they tip well, because I guarantee whatever they leave, it’s always the same.
He saunters over after getting the resident alcoholic woman her “Diet,” and suggesting an Allagash White to a Miller Lite drinking man (i.e., calling him a pansy). I try to stop myself from judging. It doesn’t it work.
Lilu: “Hey there… I’m that annoying girl who keeps calling about her grocery bag full of smelly gym clothes.”
VBB: “Ah, yes… it’s been very bothersome indeed.” He’s flirting with me a little, but underneath I can tell that it actually has been annoying. I know, I’ve been on that side before.
Lilu: “I’m so sorry… well, I’m here to take it off your hands and leave you alone.”
VBB: “Fantastic. Let me grab it.”
He disappears for a moment, and returns with the offending Giant bag. It’s ripped in a couple places and my bright orange sports bra threatens to tumble out. I humbly reach for the smelly thing, anxious to be on my way without further humiliation.
VBB: “Wait a minute, how do I know this is YOUR grocery bag? I’m going to need you to ID the contents inside.” Ugh.
Lilu: “Well, there’s a pair of extremely dirty flipflops, a couple sweaty sports bras, some hair product, my dignity…”
VBB: “Yup, this is yours. Enjoy.”
Lilu: (meekly) “I’m really sorry… thank you again…” (Dashes out at the speed of light, and metaphoric tail between her legs.)
Probably, what I should take from this is that I am incredibly forgetful and the dose of humiliation was just retribution for not taking care of my things.
Instead, I’ve decided that it means the universe doesn’t want me to get in shape. Jerk.
{ 14 comments }
Ummm, well after we left you there was a whole todo about my lost house keys which, after trekking around in the rain, walking up and down Conn. Ave, scanning the ground, were found in my handbag.
Hope my early senility makes you feel a tad better!
I broke up with my boyfriend on Wednesday, clearly illustrating how that night just kind of sucked all around.
I BH does have some rather charming bartenders. Was it the older British dude?
It makes me feel better, FK, and I don’t even feel bad.
Smelly: The alternative is to just not change.
Actually, I’m pretty sure you left your dignity in a ditch a few years back
hahaha! xo
Burn!
Frecks: Searching for teeny things on Connecticut Avenue in the rain makes me sad in my pants.
HP: It wasn’t the British guy… a normal bartendery sort of guy, early 30s, longer dark hair, perpetual expression of “I hate dealing with annoying girls” on his face. Not that I blamed him at all.
66: Our night would have been short-lived if I hadn’t showered and changed, believe me.
Jules: Shhh, B reads this! You swore never to reveal my night with that pirate hooker. Oh wait, that was YOU.
C’mon out to the ‘burbs, I’ll take you to happy hour at a bar that has LOCKERS. No joke. Mostly I think intended for ladies who don’t want to lug a purse to the dance floor or have a winter coat draped over their arm all night.
Nothing would have made me happier than you putting your sweatastic gym clothes on the bench next to us.
Charlotte: Lockers, that is hilarious, BUT… $10 says I would leave behind whatever I put in the locker, EVERY time.
Lem: You get me, woman. You really get me.
You could have totally played it another way: “I have a confession… I left it behind on purpose in hopes of meeting you, Big Guy…” or, as we said when we were five, “I meant to do that!”
Lacochran: Crap, “I meant to do that” is for 5 year olds?? I need a new catch phrase…
Good grief, woman…after seeing that picture, I am sending you a gym bag. My treat. ;o) And I’ll throw in a good-for-nothing, evil ex-personal trainer for no extra charge.
Ooops. I think I just made Blogger barf all over your page.
Haha- no worries, woman. Perhaps I should treat myself to a bag with a zipper and no holes…