Two Champagnes (and a pile of self pity)

Friends keep telling me it’s time to leave my cave of sadness and re-enter society. My husband and I separated over a year ago, and apparently the world needs to meet Single Tracy.

The problem is… I have no idea who that person is.

I haven’t been single since my 20s - back when dating involved flip phones, limited social media, and significantly less emotional trauma. I barely know how to “human” these days - let alone single. Add a little discomfort, and I babble about inappropriate things and look completely unhinged.

My friend is over my excuses about “not being ready” and gets us tickets for an upcoming event. The concept? Bring a bottle of wine to share, meet some new people, mingle, sparkle, live your best life. Sounds easy enough, right?

Wrong.

I am a chronic overthinker. I build this night up in my head like I’m being interviewed on death row. Each frantic thought stacks on the next until it crescendos into a full-blown panic attack. I have no idea what Single Tracy should wear, say or even if she can be around people anymore.

I’m moments from backing out when my friend arrives. “Get in the car. You are coming to this event to socialize, not get married. I brought Veuve.”

Ugh. Ok. Fine.

During the drive, she excitedly mentions she has gone on a few dates with a new man. I am thrilled for her, and of course, want every single lurid detail so I can live vicariously. I hang on to every morsel until we arrive at the event.

There’s a guy playing lovely music. Lots of round tables with seats for the hundreds of promised attendees. However, they are mostly empty except for a few couples who appear to have been married since Jesus was a boy and have less than zero interest in making new friends. Oh, and, a tiny table with a tray of cheese and crackers. Um, hello? Where is the advertised crowd of people bringing the fun and frivolity? And that’s it for SNACKS? I PUT ON MASCARA FOR THIS?!?

My friend and I drink our champagne and nibble on our allotted mouse portions of cheese while waiting for the promised crowd of people to arrive. Which never happens. Not one person even comes over to chat with us. The only real conversation going on is my friend texting the new paramour “I can’t wait to see you. I’ll be there soon.”

This is my big comeback? The world ushering me in with a scoop of brie and lies to accompany the Veuve, which we had to bring? No people. No energy. No hope. And now I’m learning no ride home - because my friend is making plans to meet up with the beau and she drove us to the event.

A car service is my only option of escape before I start to sob and ruin that stupid mascara.

The driver arrives to rescue me. He only speaks Spanish. I am a Spanish professor, but I am utterly petrified of embarrassing myself in a conversation with native speakers. But the Veuve is kicking in, tag teaming with self-pity for my pathetic life - always a dangerous concoction. And for reasons that cannot be explained by science, logic, or basic self-control, I start talking. And I do not stop.

I babble about whatever Spanishy words stumble into my mouth. The driver responds and I think asks questions? I have no idea. He is very soft-spoken, and I have a hard time hearing him over my incessant chatter.

And then, at some point, he says: “Eres bonita” and that he likes my “manera de hablar.”

This man has been trapped in a moving vehicle with me while I unravel.

And still… bonita?

Wait, WHAT? Did you just call me bonita? And you like how I speak?

Well, that just blows the lid right off Pandora’s box of oversharing. Verbal chaos pours out of my soul. Politics. Life. Fears. Probably my blood type. Maybe my social security number? The Macarena could have made an appearance. Who knows? Honestly, there are no reliable witnesses.

Were the sentences grammatically correct? No.

But were they coherent? Also no.

Just forty minutes of uninterrupted what may or may not pass for Spanish tirade.

My driver pulls up to my house, and I tip him like I’m a gangster asking him to forget he ever laid eyes on me. I get out, grateful this hideous night has ended. Chapter closed. Dignity… pending investigation.

The next morning, I grab my phone to tell my friend she is never allowed to drive on girls’ night out again, and this pops up:

“Hola Bonita.”

And just like that… apparently, I’m back in the game.

When Tracy Winslow isn’t avoiding the real world by hiding in her pain cave with a gallon of Latte Cookies and Cream ice cream as her only comfort, she works and can’t fathom why Mr. Right hasn’t wandered into her yarn shop, Shrimp and Knits. Just kidding. She knows why. But don’t swipe left (or is it right?) on the best yarn, classes, notions, and events in the Low Country. Maybe you can meet someone new? shrimpandknits.com