Sometimes it just takes too long for me to write about the randomness in my life. Here’s Part II of my visit to the DMV on Labor Day Weekend. Read Part I here.
Day 2 of our Girls Trip to the DMV was under way. We’d obsessed over what to do, where to go all morning, and the standard answer was still, “To the District.” So, off we went.
After clowning with the staff at Ben’s Chilli Bowl (They were singing MJ’s “PYT,” and I line danced in the middle of the restaurant.), we strolled down U Street to see what the rest of the day had in store. A gorgeous guy, skin kissed by the sun, stood outside of a cafe and motioned for us to come in. Surprisingly, it was a day party, and behind those doors, people were getting it in.
Almost immediately, some guy approaches me and begins dancing. I can appreciate a guy who doesn’t want to bump and grind or challenge me to a dance-off, so I two-stepped with him for a little while. He was nice-looking, but I could tell he was slightly older. (I have to remember to stop saying “older,” as if I won’t be 30 soon. Le sigh. ) He wore a cap, a tee and what my girls coined as “dad jeans.” Hilarious. Atleast he didn’t have on K-Swiss to complete the look.
Before he could ask my name, he spouted out all types of “compliments.” I wanted to say, “Thanks, but you make the truth sound so disgusting.” He was thisclose to calling me a “tall drink of water.” I sensed that this was a Living Single club episode waiting to happen.
In an instant, he’d swayed me to the bar for a drink; I obliged. Don’t judge me. The entire time, my girls are laughing as I make funny faces over his shoulder. I noticed they kept throwing their hands up, pointing to and wiggling their ring fingers. Was “Single Ladies” on?
Nope. Ohhhh, I get it.
After a few sips of my cocktail, suddenly, I didn’t feel like dancing anymore.I thanked and chatted him up, I was on to next.
“So, your friend with the “Dad Jeans” had a wedding ring on. You didn’t see it?” one friend asked.
“He did? Nah, didn’t see it.”
“Yeah, while you were ordering your drink he stuck his hand in his pocket to take it off,” the other chimed in.
Oh yeah? Men. As if him being married was the only barrier between us.
Before I could respond, Mr. I Don’t Wear My Wedding Ring was back in my personal bubble trying to dance. It became painfully obvious that this was first time out in a long time without the wife. He was just too damn eager. Poof, be gone!
It took me atleast 15 minutes to get away from him. Not to mention, he kept coming back around to ask if I was ready for another drink. What do I look like, a fool?
“No, I won’t be getting another drink. This is enough,” I said. “I think you’ve had enough, too.”
“I’m just gettin’ started!” he replied as he continued to dance himself silly.
I gave him the side-eye of all side-eyes. I could see the imprint of his ring sitting snug in the bottom his left pocket, but I didn’t even mention it. It was unnecessary to point something so blatantly obvious out to an adult who knows right from wrong. If hiding a symbol of your marriage is part of a scheme to test if you still have your mojo, there’s nothing I can say or do to help. On top of that, I didn’t even know the guy. Why not leave on a high note?
“Okay, well good for you. We’re leaving now. Nice meeting you.”
I left him standing there. The last time I saw him, he was doing something like the Reebok on the patio, scoping out his next victims, some college girls with bad weaves.
In the words of the great lyricist, Silkk the Shocker, “You ain’t gotta lie to kick it.”