At this point, it was Thursday night and I was waiting for Diecinueve to come meet me at the hotel.
I'd met Diecinueve over two and a half years earlier. I'd gone up to Vancouver, BC, with TravelMate 2000 and Flowers and we'd stayed there two nights. The first night we went, TM2000 met a girl and Flowers met a girl, whom I will call Flowers' Friend. I met no girls... or, rather, I met no girls that were particularly interested in meeting me.
Flowers' Friend gave him her number, and so the second night we decided to go to where she (and, allegedly, some female friends) was. It was a dance club, and there was a line. Flowers' friend was in the club and we decided to wait in line (which is a bit atypical of us). So we waited.
And waited.
Eventually we were close to the front, and Flowers' Friend came out to check on us. She brought a friend, and it was... a bit deflating.
What you're about to read exposes me as a bit of an asshole. Not, perhaps, unlike most guys, but... an asshole. My apologies if this is news to you.
OK. Something about Flowers' Friend. She was cute--nice smile, good hair, cute Mexican accent--and she was fit. "Fit" is a good adjective in terms of what women (and, I guess, all people, although I tend to care significantly less about dudes on that front) ought to be. Or, at least, ought to be if they prefer to have me find them physically attractive. (I know that "fit" wasn't part of my CHC scale. I need to think about that one.)
So. Cute. Fit. Good...
Flowers' Friend's friend, who I will call Flowers' Friend's Friend, was not particularly cute. And definitely not fit. In fact (and this is the asshole part) she was more than a bit fat.
Which is OK. I understand that some people are overweight, and I'm sure she was a delightful girl. But I didn't stand in line for 35 minutes to get into a club so I could dance with gordas.
But... we consciously acknowledged the sunk cost effect and decided to stick it out until we got into the club. There was, after all, at least one cute girl who liked Flowers well enough, and we'd already put in the time to get to the front of the line (sunk cost) and ... where else were we gonna go?
So we went in. Paid our way in with the Canadian funny money and approached the dance floor.
Fortunately, Flowers' Friend had more than one friend at the club.
A quick aside about me, at this point: I was wearing a blue blazer over a pretty awesome t-shirt. This t-shirt had a microphone in it and lighted up more as the volume increased. Let me show you, courtesy of a random YouTube video I found:
Silly? Of course? Awesome? Some think so.
Diecinueve was one of those who thought so, which was tremendous news for me.
When we walked onto the dancefloor, we all said hola to Flowers' Friend, and my eyes locked onto Diecinueve and her eyes locked onto my shirt and we ended up hanging out for much of the rest of the night. She was fun and adorable (and fit) and she enjoyed touching my shirt, which distracted her from my intolerable dancing skills.
It was not until later that night, when I learned that Canada had a younger drinking age than the US, that I learned she was ... significantly younger than I'd anticipated. Hence her codename in my blog.
But... who cares, right? Almost everyone is significantly younger than I am, and so we stayed in touch off and on for the next couple of years, and I was about to see her in person for the second time ever when she was meeting me at my hotel on Thursday night.
More on that next time.
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