Getting Old & Acting Creepy

Getting Old & Acting Creepy

Last night, a girl friend and I decided to have a ladies’ night.

We had high expectations of a Wednesday night filled with drinks and laughs and dancing.

Plans went from a club in Atlantic City to a bar in Somers Point.

Cocktails and cute outfits turned into two tired girls sitting at a table in the corner struggling to finish our one and only drinks over a pile of nachos and mozzarella sticks.

She is a newly, newly wed, so I got to look through her camera and see all of her pictures, which was lovely—she is lovely.

By 9:30, we were yawning and calling it a night; I could barely keep my eyes open on the 45 minute drive home.

Not to say, I didn’t have a great time, because I did. It just made me feel old and kind of lame.

A month ago, I hosted an awesome Halloween party in a house I rented in Ocean City. It was lots of fun, and a lot to clean up and take home, so inevitably Brian forgot his brand new tool box that his dad bought him for his birthday. Ocean City is kind of out of the way, and after a few failed attempts to return to get the box, we’d kind of forgotten it. The owner of the house had already winterized it (I know, because I clean for her.)

So last night, since we had driven to the bar from my lady friend’s apartment in Ocean City, I asked if she minded stopping at the house quickly so I could grab the tool box before I headed home. So we did.

There’s a lockbox on the front porch, and I knew the combination from cleaning in the summer, so I fumbled around with it in the dark, until I finally got the stupid thing open.

I did explain to the owner that I had forgotten something, and would be stopping by the house next time I was in the area to get it. She lives in West Virginia. It’s not like I routinely just let myself into people’s homes.

I open the lockbox, and there is NO KEY inside of it. There’s a guy who lives in a separate downstairs apartment, and his light was on, but he had complained about our bass being too loud at the party, and I didn’t really feel like asking him.

So I get the bright idea to walk around the back of the house to a two story garage that was converted into another apartment. I knocked on the door once and waited. It’s 10pm on a Wednesday night by this point. I knock again. Finally a shirtless guy in his late twenties answers the door to find two lovely ladies standing outside in the dark.

I briefly explained that I had indeed met him before, because I invited him to my Halloween party a month early—“Could you let me into the house, I forgot something?” He briefly explained that he had been to no such party, and that was probably his brother. Oops. I countered with a—“Remember that time in the summer I cleaned the house and you were in there fixing the washer?” (True story.) It worked. The dude put a hoody on, led us into the house, and once I found the light switch, I made my way to the 2^nd floor and found the tool box.

On our way back to my friend’s apartment, we concluded that three things could have happened tonight—we could have left empty handed, we could have had good luck and gotten the tool box, or we could have never been heard of again.

I went to bed last night feeling old and creepy.