I Got Married at a Party

With this ring, I thee...see ya.

With this ring, I thee…see ya.

Once, I was married for about three seconds. Well, okay, that’s a lie, but it felt that way.

I should start by saying that I don’t really go to parties, because:

1. Drinking is illegal for me, as I’m only 19 and in the U.S. you have to be 21. Which I personally think is a mistake, since everyone in college wants to drink and will find a way to do it whether it’s legal or not, but that’s beside the point.

2. Most parties in college consist of a lot of alcohol consumed by a lot of people.

3. See number 1.

So I don’t tend to go out to parties much, but about two months ago I did, (and didn’t drink, Mom!) and was having a lovely time dancing on my own (because boys are afraid of my sick moves) when my friend noticed a guy standing behind me, staring at me. She thought this meant that he wanted to dance, but I personally thought it was because he was out of his mind on a whole lot of illegal substances which could potentially have put him in the hospital. But at this point, he was at least semi-responsive and looking at me, and somehow managed to ask me if I’d like to dance. I said yes, mainly because I am an awkward monkey and don’t know how to talk to someone whose blood is half alcohol and half weed.

We had been dancing for about 3 seconds when he rubbed my butt. With his hand. In a very…rubby…way. And then he removed his hand from my trouser area (thank goodness) and held my hand. Really strongly, in an “I am now dating you” sort of way. I know this sounds so ridiculous, but I think it was one of the nicest hand-holding experiences I’ve had, creepy guy/butt rub aside. And then he looked deep into my eyes, and might’ve continued to my soul had he not been so wasted that his gaze shifted to my ear.

The point is, I got a butt rub, hand hold, and soul-searching gaze all in about 10 seconds before he walked away, at which point I busted out laughing for about a year. Because really, I could’ve been creeped out or offended, but this sort of thing would only happen to me. My friends? Would’ve danced with a normal fellow and had nice conversation. Me? Butt rub hand hold all the way.

Oh, and did I mention that I sat about 10 feet away from him in my class two days later? Yeah. I see him all the time. Best part? He doesn’t remember. But I do. I remember. And he is my husband. My creepy, slightly rapey husband.

Wink.

Advertisements

12 thoughts on “I Got Married at a Party

  1. You are hilarious. I like you. I’m your mom now. I’ve decided that someone needs to keep an eye on you, and I’ve just adopted you. To some, this looks like I am “following” your blog, but we will both know I’m your new mommy. (I’ll try to find a nice chocolate baby for you before Christmas since I’ve always wanted one.)

    Love, Mom xox

  2. Well, congratulations Capster. You gave me a heart attack with the title of this post. And then I read it and now I’m on my way to where you are to give this fellow a very strongly worded lecture about boundaries.

    Love you!

    • He really needs to understand them! I shall tell him “you invaded my butt’s space. Its bubble. And you need to know that it wasn’t cool”
      And then you can slap him around a little :)
      Love you too!!!

  3. Well, in Sweden, you are aloud to drink at eighteen at bars, in clubs etc. BUT you are not aloud to go to the story and buy a alcohol there, because that’s not legal until you’re 20. So drink until you puke when you are out, not even aloud to drink a glas of wine when you’re eating dinner with your boyfriend at home…

  4. Pingback: Remember? | cappy writes

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s