Speaking of unattached—that was also true of my relationship status.

I was standing by my car, waiting for my gas tank to fill, mentally hypnotized by the tick tick tick of the meter, when I noticed a man walking toward me. Instinctively, I tightened my grip on my purse and adjusted my stance. You know. Just in case.

He smiled.
Very friendly.
Very confident.

“Hi, Diana!”

Which was unsettling, because I had no idea who he was.

He asked how I was doing. He seemed to know what was going on in my life. I nodded politely while frantically flipping through the dusty Rolodex of my memory, hoping his face would load.

And then it hit me.

Josh.
High school.
Used to date Megan.

Ah yes. Josh.
Not a threat. I relaxed.

He said he’d love to catch up and asked if I wanted to get coffee sometime. I agreed, unclear whether this was a date or just two people who vaguely recognized each other agreeing to try nostalgia.

Turns out, it was supposed to be a date. Except when we met up, he immediately confessed that he’d just started seeing someone else—and it was going really well. So, this was actually just a friendly coffee.

Perfect. Dating was exhausting anyway. This was good.

He had taken a job as a prison guard right out of high school, and was still doing that. He had also been married, and divorced. He was taking some college classes, at UVSC, which is where he met his girlfriend, who was a TA in his English class. And he lived about two blocks from me—a quick stroll through the church parking lot and down the road.

All signs pointed to the fact we could probably be friends.

But then introduced me to his new girlfriend, Mindy.

That was his first mistake.

I loved Mindy immediately. She was exactly my flavor of nerd, and—more importantly—she thought I was hilarious. Any interest I might’ve had in deepening my friendship with Josh was promptly abandoned in favor of stealing his girlfriend.

I asked Mindy if she wanted to go to Lagoon, an amusement park about an hour away.

She said yes.

WOO.
Friendship secured.

And then my anxiety showed up.

We were going to be together all day. Our first real hangout, and I had committed us to an all-day event with an hour-long car ride. What if we didn’t get along? What if we ran out of things to say? What if I spent an hour trapped in silence with a woman I’d aggressively befriended?

So, I made a plan.

I assembled a show-and-tell box.

Inside: my missionary badge, old photos, and some handmade lingerie.

Mindy mocked me mercilessly. But it worked. We had plenty to talk about. And I let her keep the lingerie. Friendship requires sacrifice.

We had a great day—connection, laughter, roller coasters. The works.

One night, Mindy and Josh threw a party and invited me over. There were a lot of people from high school. It was deeply uncomfortable. I barely knew anyone, and my introverted soul wanted to escape through a window.

Eventually, I sat down next to Jamie.

I didn’t really know Jamie in high school. I just knew she existed somewhere in the building. I did know her older brother, who was a theater techie. Which felt adjacent enough.

She knew me – I was the star in one of the high school plays and she had manned the spotlight. Unbeknownst to me, she thought I was cool.

She seemed nice. She seemed like my kind of person. She also seemed like she might already be friends with Mindy.

So, I formed a plan.

A girls’ trip.
To Vegas.

I found a stripper class. Because obviously. And I asked if they wanted to come. We could drink, eat, play, and apparently learn how to be strippers.

They both said yes.

My plan was perfect.

They were already friends, so I could slide in gently as the third wheel. If I ran out of things to say, they could entertain each other. I would simply exist nearby.

Flawless.

Jamie drove us down—five and a half hours. The conversation flowed effortlessly the entire way. No awkwardness. No panic. I felt like a social genius.

Then we got to the hotel room.

I had booked one room. Two queen beds. I assumed—incorrectly—that since they knew each other better than they knew me, they’d want to share a bed.

This is when I discovered the fatal flaw.

They did not know each other.
At all.
Jamie was Josh’s friend. Mindy was Josh’s girlfriend. I had somehow assumed Josh functioned like LinkedIn.

I had accidentally condemned three introverts to a weekend of forced intimacy with total strangers.

I was a monster.

I’m still not sure how I missed the fact that they’d been asking each other softball getting-to-know-you questions during the entire drive. I think I assumed they were doing it for me. You know. To make me comfortable.

Either way—we were there now.

The stripper class was fun.

We learned about fluffing.

I learned a new slang term for vagina: cookie. None of us pursued stripping as a career, but it was educational.

Somehow, we survived the weekend without imploding.

I drove Jamie’s vehicle home while the two of them slept, recovering from the intense social marathon I’d unknowingly inflicted.

And against all odds—it worked.

I don’t know how. But it worked.

Maybe it was the magic of Vegas.

Vegas is magical.

Which is to say—it’s incredibly underwhelming. Trashy. Loud. Slightly sticky. A city built entirely on broken dreams and frozen margaritas.

But they have really good food.

Eventually, Mindy moved in with Josh. Within walking distance.

And I stepped up my efforts to steal her.

I became her food mistress.

She’d leave Josh at home and come to my place, where I would feed her. We’d have dinner, drinks, and watch movies. Sometimes we ordered in. Other times I made a sincere attempt to cook.

I also started baking.

Alcoholic cupcakes.

Irish Car Bomb cupcakes.

Irish coffee cupcakes.

Tiramisu cupcakes.

Once I made a rum cake. I messed up the recipe so badly it was mostly rum. It was terrible. We ate it anyway. About halfway through, it wasn’t as bad—but we were also fairly drunk by then.

I tried it again the next day.

No.

Still awful.

Since she lived so close I could safely get her drunk and she could stumble home.

Living that close also meant I could rope her into feeding my cats while I went on road trips without her.

I did a weekend in Vegas with Alan and his new wife, Monica. They introduced me to something they’d learned on their honeymoon in Spain: a tapas crawl. We walked the Strip, stopping at multiple restaurants, ordering one or two small plates and one or two drinks at each place, then moved on before our bodies has time to object. I almost kept up the whole day – I had to pass on the last two vodka shots.

I enthusiastically approved. Of Spain. And of the practice of eating delicious food until you’re fairly certain you’re going to puke.

That trip was civilized. Cultured. European. We were people who used forks.

Another weekend, I went to Vegas with Jason and Estela.

They had tickets to a show. I did not. I assumed I would simply find a dance while they were gone. Swing. Blues. Something soulful and nerdy.

There was nothing.

Which left me with one remaining option: a nightclub.

I was not keen on standing around awkwardly while soulless bass rattled my organs and men prowled the room looking for pussy.

Or…cookies.

So, I stayed in the hotel room and read.

Like the introvert I am.

There was another trip—this one with both Alan and Jason, and their spouses. I don’t remember much about it, except that it’s where I learned an important truth about myself:

I am not a morning drinker.

I had a mimosa with brunch and was vomiting by noon.

I was sharing a room with Jason and Estela, and when Estela heard the retching, she immediately evacuated the room. Not out of judgment—out of self-preservation. I didn’t know it yet, but she had just found out she was pregnant and was already fighting morning sickness. One more bodily sound and she was going down with me.

Vegas giveth.
Vegas taketh away.
Mostly dignity.

The next trip I took with Jason and Estela would be different.

Different city.
Different pace.
Still some unpleasant bodily functions.

But this time, they would be thanks to their young son.