Has Anyone Seen My Pants?

by Sarah Colonna

  “I feel like we know each other so well already but I just wanted to give you a few little things so you can get to know me a bit better . . . ,” the card read.

  As I opened the bag, I found several items inside.

  “What’s all this?” I asked as I pulled out DVDs, CDs, and candy.

  “They’re my favorite things.” Jon smiled. “I’m excited to find out what your favorite things are, too.”

  Oh my God, he’s gay, sarcastic Sarah crept into my mind to utter.

  Fuck off, he’s just incredibly thoughtful and you’re not used to that, rational Sarah said insistently.

  “This is amazing,” I said as I took in each item. One of his favorite movies was Bull Durham. Points.

  His favorite candy was Twizzlers. I prefer Red Vines, I thought. This may never work.

  Then I pulled out a bottle of champagne—his favorite—Veuve Clicquot. Okay, this is good; I can deal with the Twizzlers thing.

  “I love this champagne, too!” I smiled.

  “Do you have any plastic cups? Let’s pour a glass for the ride to the restaurant,” he suggested.

  If he proposed right then I would have probably said yes.

  At the restaurant, it was very obvious we were smitten. At one point I asked him if it seemed like the table was wider than tables at other restaurants.

  “I’m so glad you said that, I feel so far away from you and I hate it,” he said as he held my hand from across the ocean-sized table between us.

  I wanted to just go sit right next to him, but I had mocked too many “same sider” couples in my waitressing days to do so with a clear conscience. So instead, we sat suffering.

  Jon ordered a bottle of Veuve, which I thought was something he was doing because it was a special occasion, but I would later find out that that’s just what he likes to drink, regardless of the meal. What? Don’t all six-foot-tall, buff NFL players order a glass of champagne with their lunch? If not, they should.

  I think dinner was good, but neither of us was really paying attention to the food. We were lost in conversation, which thankfully came very easily for us. There’s nothing worse than the silent first-date dinner. We polished off our champagne as the waiter approached.

  “Any dessert for the lovebirds?” He smiled.

  Oh my God, we must look like such assholes, I thought.

  “Is it that obvious?” Jon laughed.

  “You remind me of this older African-American couple that was in here before. They were so in love,” the waiter replied.

  As we waited outside for the Uber driver after dinner, I looked up at Jon.

  “Did our waiter compare us to an elderly black couple?” I asked him.

  “Oh, good, you caught that, too.”

  Later, when we got back to my place, my plan to maybe not have sex with him fell through. No, that’s not the first time that’s happened to me. But this time, it felt like waiting any longer would be complete torture—plus, we didn’t even know when we would see each other again.

  He had to leave around five o’clock in the morning in order to take his family to Disneyland. I heard from him on his way to Anaheim, when he got to Anaheim, and all throughout the day.

  “I wish I could see you again before I leave,” he wrote at one point, his thoughts mirroring mine.

  I knew he wouldn’t have time to make the hour-or-so trek back up to Los Angeles, so I offered to come down to meet him for a quick drink that night, before he had to head back to Phoenix.

  We were probably just as disgusting to watch that night while we sat at a quiet dive bar just around the corner from his hotel. I’m sure I owe an apology to the many deliriously happy-looking couples I’ve rolled my eyes at over the years. Later that night, I dropped him off back at his hotel, having to make do with kissing good-bye because his room was connected to his family’s room and any other sort of shenanigans on our part would have been a little bit rude.

  “That’s my move,” I told him before he got out of the car, “I give it up on the first date, then hold out on the second.”

  He made a comment about how horrible it was that he couldn’t take me upstairs and kissed me good night. I grinned like an asshole the whole drive home.

  The next day, two dozen roses were delivered to my door. “I had the best time with you, I can’t wait to see you again,” the card read.

  I immediately wrote him and thanked him, then took a picture of the roses and texted it to all of my girlfriends.

  “Oh, he’s good,” every single one of them responded.

  A couple weeks later, I had an annual girls’ trip with Tara and Steph to Angels Spring Training, which just so happens to take place in Tempe, Arizona, which just so happens to be smack next to Phoenix. This was planned before I ever even spoke to Jon, and damn it, I have the reservation confirmation from the hotel to prove it. I knew that Jon was also a huge baseball fan and a fan of attending Spring Training games. I had mentioned my upcoming trip to him, but we both agreed I shouldn’t be the girl who tries to bring a guy into the girls’ trip. And he really didn’t want to be the guy who crashed the girls’ trip.

  “Are you insane?” Tara asked as I quietly mentioned that he lived there and that maybe he could meet us out for a drink one night. “He should meet us every night. We are dying to meet him!”

  “I concur!” Steph said excitedly. “Is he going to be okay with me asking him a couple of questions about when he played for Green Bay?”

  “He’s prepared for that,” I laughed. Knowing how big a fan of Green Bay Steph is, I had already warned Jon that subject might come up if he met her.

  Our conversation went from me explaining that I would not spend the night with him either night because it was a girls’ trip and we needed to sing karaoke in our underwear with no boys around, to them bargaining with me to spend one night with him as long as I didn’t leave out any details the next day.

  Steph decided since this was a “new relationship” (her words, not mine—I was not yet calling it a relationship since so far we had only been on two dates), I was going to need to go see him right away when we got to Phoenix. She figured out that if I went to his place, she and Tara could find somewhere to have happy hour and he and I could meet up with them after we got some afternoon sex out of our systems.

  “Really? I feel bad just going to see him right when I get there; this is our trip,” I told them as we sucked down Bloody Marys at the airport.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, this is a new relationship, you need to have sex. You guys are all pent up,” Tara chimed in.

  “I know, but I’m going to see him next weekend all by myself,” I explained as I drained my drink.

  “What? You are? Oh my God, you guys are in love,” Steph said.

  “I didn’t tell you? Yes. We decided since I have next weekend off, I should come back to Phoenix. I have to perform like every weekend after that for a while so it seemed like a good time to hang out.”

  “That’s so awesome. But yes, you still need to see him when we get in,” they said insistently.

  Obviously, I wasn’t going to argue with them about this. The truth was, I didn’t want to be “that girl” who brought a guy into the trip, but I also really, really liked this guy. And I hadn’t really liked someone—someone who was available and real and wasn’t afraid to show me how much he liked me, too—in so long that I had almost forgotten how exciting it can be. I think that excitement bleeds onto the people who care about you and suddenly they’re almost as caught up in it as you are.

  The minute I walked into Jon’s condo in Phoenix, we attacked each other like he had been off fighting a war for seven years. When we finally pulled it together, we left to go meet Steph and Tara at a bar down the street. We walked in to see they had ordered a bottle of Veuve for him, which Jon thought was both hilarious and sweet.

  �
��Your hair looks insane,” Steph laughed as we sat down.

  “You look like you just took a quaalude,” Tara said.

  Jon and I both blushed.

  “It’s called an orgasm,” Steph laughed.

  And just like that Jon was thrown right into the fire with two of my closest friends.

  “Well, then how does my hair look?” Jon asked.

  We all laughed and the awkward “we just had sex and everyone at the table knows it” moment was put to rest (until he got up to go to the bathroom and they grilled me).

  Tara and Steph loved Jon, as I knew/hoped they would, and vice versa. So, despite my attempts to play it cool, he ended up going to a game with us and joining us for dinner one night, and I ended up spending both nights at his place. We had all decided I’d only spend one night with him, but that changed on the second night after Steph had gone back to the hotel early because she wasn’t feeling well and Tara drunkenly insisted that I stay with Jon because she was going to pass out, anyway—no girls’-night karaoke meant I might as well get some sex. The next morning, at eight o’clock, Jon shook me awake.

  “Babe, babe, you have to get up!”

  “What? Why? Wait—did you just call me ‘babe’?”

  “I did. Do you not like it?”

  “No, I love it.” I smiled. And I really did. I couldn’t remember if anyone else had called me that before. I knew that Tori Spelling and Dean what’s-his-face called each other “babe,” so I never thought I’d want anyone to call me that. But suddenly I understood them.

  “Okay, good. But we have to go. I can’t be the guy who brings you back late. I promised them I’d have you back in time for you guys to have breakfast together!”

  I grinned at how cute it was that he was so worried about my friends and what they thought. He was out to make a good impression and he wasn’t going to let me ruin it, even though I tried to because I really just wanted to do it again, especially after the whole “babe” thing left me oddly aroused.

  I made it back for breakfast as promised, then the girls and I went to another baseball game, and that night we headed home.

  Thankfully, I only had to wait a week to see Jon again. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent a real weekend with a guy, but I was pretty certain whenever it was, it wasn’t as stress-free as my time with Jon. I mean, I had my usual moments of panic, like where and when I would go number two without his ever ever ever suspecting that I had, but other than that I just felt relaxed and happy.

  After that weekend, I felt pretty confident that neither of us was interested in dating anyone else, but it seemed a little early for me to think about it and I definitely wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. I appreciated that he was really open with me and didn’t try to play it cool, so I was doing the same thing, but there are still some things I am a traditional girl about. I mean, I’ll fuck you on the first date but I sure am not going to be the one to bring up “the talk.” Boundaries, you guys . . . boundaries.

  But one night, soon after that trip, while he and I were texting, the subject just kind of came up when he asked me if I would still be willing to date him when he had to go back to Seattle for work.

  “Of course,” I replied. “It isn’t even that long of a flight from L.A. to Seattle.”

  “I know, but it might be hard sometimes. After the season starts, it won’t be as easy to visit each other for a few months.”

  Considering that it was March, and the season started in September, I knew that he was looking ahead to the future, and I liked it. After a couple more texts where we both confirmed we were very much interested in seeing where this “thing” could go, he sent me a text that made my tummy jump.

  “So you and me?” he wrote.

  I paused, smiled, responded. “Yeah, you and me.”

  And just like that, after five years of barely even having a date, I was in a full-blown relationship.

  The next day, I e-mailed Sarah Tilley and told her to go ahead and take that stupid Match.com profile down. As soon as I hit “send” on the e-mail, I held my breath, waiting for her to reply and tell me that this was way too soon, that she had put effort into this and I had agreed to it and what about the six-pack?

  Instead, I got a very supportive, happy e-mail from her.

  “So you’re not mad?” I asked her.

  “What? No, not at all! You seem really happy and he seems crazy about you. That’s all I care about.”

  “Thank you, that means a lot to me. But I’m sorry you wasted time on Match.com. You can’t get those hours back.”

  “It was fun. Plus, I think the fact that you were so open to meeting someone was because of me.”

  “Are you fishing for some credit here?”

  “No. But you can admit that, right?”

  “Yes, you get some credit,” I responded. And I actually meant it.

  She gave me the password to the account so that I could go and cancel it, plus she figured now that this endeavor was over I should get to see the profile she’d created for me. Below is word for word what the “About Me” section said:

  What you should know about me . . . I love that show Bar Rescue (it’s awesome, right?), I hate malls and when I’m sober, I can stay quiet during movies (which is supremely important). Also . . . I am a fiercely loyal person and you will know and feel that if you are in my life. I work hard but know how to enjoy life to the fullest, I see humor in almost everything, I’m passionate, and I’m loyal (I already said that but I am running out of good qualities). At this point in my life, I am not going into dating with a concrete “profile” that I am looking for. I am just really open to meeting and getting to know new, interesting people.

  Wow, she knows me really well, I thought as I read it. And I really do love Bar Rescue. If you haven’t seen that show, might I suggest a Saturday-afternoon binge-watching marathon? You can thank me later.

  I scrolled down to read more about myself. “I like to try new places, not a huge fan of waiting in lines at bars . . . always down for a dive with a good jukebox.”

  Huh, all true, I marveled.

  “I exercise five or more times per week.”

  Well, I exercise like four times a week, but I’d like to exercise five or more.

  “I like Aerobics, Dancing, Running, Walking/Hiking, Weights/Machines, Yoga.”

  Aerobics? Who the fuck still does aerobics?

  The photo she chose as my lead photo was this one:

  I guess she figured it’s important a potential suitor knows that I’m flexible.

  And the second photo people saw when they browsed my profile was this:

  No wonder she didn’t find me anyone who seemed normal.

  After making fun of Tilley for referencing a workout routine from the 1980s, I hit “delete profile.” My reverse-catfishing days were behind me. At least for now.

  For me, one of the challenges of dating someone new is knowing that they will ultimately see me do stand-up—not because I don’t think I’m good at it; I know I am, and I love doing it. But, as I’ve mentioned previously, not everyone is that comfortable watching their significant other tell stories to strangers, and that’s definitely what I do. I am more of a storyteller onstage, which means I tell (mostly) true stories, which means I reveal a lot about myself when I do stand-up. I’m comfortable with that, but that doesn’t mean everyone else is going to be. Ryan, for instance, never was.

  So, just a few weeks into our dating, I had shows in New York, and Jon asked if he could come.

  “Oh, well . . . sure,” I said.

  “Oh, I don’t have to if you don’t want me to. It’s okay.”

  “No, I do want you to. It just makes me really nervous. I’m sorry. But I want you to come.”

  That’s the other thing: I get very nervous about someone seeing me perform for the first time. That doe
sn’t just go for dating, it goes for friends, family, coworkers. I’m so much more at ease in a room full of strangers seeing me for the first time than I am with anyone I know.

  “Well, I’m going to be really nervous the first time you see me play,” he responded. “But I know you’re going to see me play many, many times. And I’m going to see you perform many, many times. So once we both get the first one out of the way, we’ll be fine.”

  “You’re pretty good at this,” I wrote back. “See you in New York.”

  Of all places, I was glad he was coming to New York. It seemed better than having him see me for the first time in some random city in the middle of nowhere, where they put me up at a Hilton Garden Inn and I wake up next to a half-eaten Hot Pocket. No, New York was the best-case scenario. It’s a fun city, I have friends there, and I love the club I work in and the hotel where I stay when I’m there.

  Before the first show, we went out to dinner and I openly worried about how many people would be in the audience. For the most part, when I perform at clubs now there is always a good crowd.

  But what if ? What if for some reason nobody comes to this show? Like not even one person? Could you imagine? Oh my God, what if that happened?

  “You’d think I was such a loser,” I told him as I laid out my worst-case scenario for him.

  “I would never think that, babe. Never. I would just think that people were stupid for not going.”

  “You always say the right thing.” I smiled.

  “But that isn’t going to happen. I mean, at least one person will be there . . . me.”

  I laughed. “I must sound ridiculous. Even when I first started performing, there was never just not anyone there.”

  “It’s going to turn me on to see you perform. I’m already so proud of you.”

  His words were so sweet and so incredibly supportive that it was hard to still be nervous, but I managed to remain terrified up until the point my foot hit the stage, which is when I always finally breathe.