The big time.
The 78th annual Strawberry Hill horse races took place this weekend. It is one of my all-time favorite [tailgating] events of the year. The day-long lush fest is our little southern town’s tribute to the Kentucky Derby – in simple terms…if Strawberry Hill were a prescription pill, it’d be the generic brand of the real deal. And I love the watered down version just the same.
I typically spend an embarrassing amount of time plotting out my frock, acquiring the accompanying comfortable heels with still a scoach of fashion, and lovely accenting accessories. But not this time – this time I waited until the last minute, which is a reflection of how crazy my life feels these days.
Thankfully I found a halter top, A-line, polka dot dress that fit the traditional theme and even managed to pull off a floppy hat to boot.
Despite the fact I was among 17,000 other tailgaters…I still managed to run into my ex, Mr. Ex.
Before the day kicked off, I asked pleaded with my closest comrades to wear their proverbial straightjackets, “Please. No drama. No cussing out. No dagger eyes. Our collective reaction will be no reaction. OK?”
Most agreed, with just one potential exception, “I can’t make any promises, depends on the amount of alcohol I’ve had during shoulder rubbing.”
When all was said and done, only one verbal interaction occurred with an attending amiga – it was between my living quarters companion and him, who are now retired friends. From what I gathered, she told him she was “disappointed” in him [the D word is probably the absolute worst word you could use in my personal opinion] and that he lost the greatest thing that would ever happen to him. Yowzers. That is a very nice compliment. Whether or not I can own that title, I will not argue that I added value to the boy’s bubble.
While walking to a gal pal’s plot, about ¾ of the way through the day with no sign of Him so far, I inevitably spotted a group of his friends. I halted to say hello and within 90 seconds, there he was in the circle. Luckily I had consumed a solid 8 Jello shooters and several vodka-sodas in my belly that the initial interaction was coated in a very subtle alcohol-induced numbness. The kind where you’re totally coherent, still articulate and aware of immediate surroundings, but somehow able to cope with circumstances to the likes of Wonder Woman.
I was introduced to one of his [girl] friends who I had seen numerous times in pictures but never met. The truth is – I speculated deep down that there had been *something* going on between them in the past. But after meeting her, I can see that that probably wasn’t the case, and just my own underlying insecurity about my unoccupied place in his pants.
Next thing I know the 3 of us are taking back fruity shots from plastic Dixie cups. I don’t know how it happened and certainly didn’t foresee that being the situation ahead of time, but when the air is sticky, you’re standing in front of the person who broke your heart, and bottles of Absolut are within reach – it’s just what you do. You take the shot.
Then we had a little side chat. The dialogue details are foggy – yet I do vividly remember that the surrounding crowd around us seemingly disappeared…while we were talking for those few minutes, it was only him & I. But everything had already been said before this moment; The apologies. The regrets. The mistakes. The aching. The missing. It sorta reminds me of this scene sequence from Sex & the City.
There is no question I’ll always love the man. He is my Titanic after all. But I’m afraid I love the man I wished he could be. No matter how hard I tried to keep that boat afloat, it was destined to sink.
