Work + Booze + Attraction = Disaster

I have about eight posts in draft mode right now, none of them complete enough thoughts for me to publish them. It will make the chronology of this story a little out of order (as in, I have a new job and am single) - but this one just wrapped itself up in a little bow for me to tell you. Ladies and Gentlemen: The Coworker.

So in my new (now only just newish) job, there is this... guy.

Where to start? He is disarmingly charming, jovial and down to earth. He's got a country accent that seems to put everyone at ease, and disguises how smart he is. He is unfailingly polite, and generous to a fault. As in, I think I have been allowed to buy my own lunch and/or drink twice in the 4 months I've known him. And he looks great in a suit, which doesn't hurt.

So the Coworker was not uninvolved in the dissolution of my last relationship. Well, he wasn't involved, but him coming into my life was. The first day I met him, there was a spark: instant chemistry. I wouldn't start working there for almost 2 months, yet I already knew who my office crush would be.

Life in the office was no better. He'd come visit me in my office, draw on my whiteboard; we'd have big conversations about economics and New Orleans and process. He made me nervous. I was screwed.

I was smitten. I hate to say it, but I was. He made me nervous. Think about the last time you knew someone who walked into a room and their instant appearance made you just a little weak and your heart beat faster and you suddenly got worried you might say something really stupid. Seriously, think about it.

Got it?

Now how often does that happen in life? It's rare. I can count on one hand, maybe two the number of times it's happened for me. Gatsby was the last one. And as soon as I realized that, I realized that I had never felt that way about my Boyfriend. And that was a problem.

So, fast forward a few gut wrenching weeks, where I split up with this amazing human being because I don't get nervous when he calls me... The Coworker and I start hanging out. He uses my breakup as an excuse (same day, no less) to buy me drinks. I start introducing him to my friends, my colleagues from my old job. I begin examining my own feelings about workplace dating. And somewhere in there, I realize that this crush is going to be way more fun the longer it lasts. To quote Cinderella from Into the Woods: "Now it's he and not you who is stuck with the shoe in the goo..." Let this man figure the shit out. I'm just gonna have a good time.

Of course, just has I have come to this realization that I am Not Going To Do Anything, my good friend, the Trainwreck, takes matters into her own hands. One night, after one too many vodka tonics, she corners him at a bar and says something that takes about 9 minutes to say and leaves him looking a little peaked and mumbling... "I think she thinks there's something going on between us." I tell you, I love this girl, and if I loved her any less I would have wrung her neck that night for ruining a perfectly good thing.

After that it devolved, let's say. He casually confronted me in mixed company; I laughed it off. He started dating girls he met through me. He made out with a couple of them in public. My perfectly good thing was no longer fun. So he and I had a conversation about it, wherein he was incredibly flattered, said "that part of him is off at work", and made me promise we'd still be friends.


An aside, at this point. My dearest friend gives me a hard time for the whole "just friends" statement. And he's right. Because the fact of the matter is, friends are pretty awesome, and most of them stick around a whole lot longer than any dude you're sleeping with, and they're generally nicer and less angsty than the guys you date. But the challenge with "Friends" is that there is often that underlying tension - and let's be real, when someone makes you stutter a little, it's gonna be hard to be friends with them. Without becoming Duckie.


I realize you're all beginning to wonder where the Booze and the Disaster part come in (because that's where every story gets fun)... so here we go.

Fast forward a number of parties and drinks and dinners and whatnot, and him asking me for girl advice (see Duckie reference above), we were out a few days ago with another mutual friend. And somewhere, in one of our minds, it sounded like a good idea to have 4-5 beers, and 3 shots of jaeger & patron over the span of 3 hours. We started at 5pm, and I was supposed to be at another party by 8 - but all I could think of at that point was going home and crawling into bed. Which is, turns out, exactly what Coworker wanted. I always think he's less drunk than I am, and I was clearly not driving anywhere - so it seemed perfectly reasonable for me to crash at his place (which, oddly, I have done before.) Everything seems just fine til now, right?

La la la, we're driving in the car, he's very drunk, I can tell, but is being reasonably cautious. And then we're almost to his house and all of a sudden there's a hand at the nape of my neck and he's pulling my hair. (Not in a 2nd grade tantrum kind of way, but in a ... well, you know what kind of way). I respond appropriately, and am sort of baffled when we get in the house and things continue... kissing, general manhandling, fingers in mouths. I unbutton his shirt, and he squares and says "I have to go to bed. You are welcome to come, but I have to go to bed," and stumbles that direction.

In that moment, I knew how bad an idea it was, and I did one of the smartest things I have ever done: I did not follow him. Considering I had spent the past four months on a spectrum between "don't let him know you like him even though your heart comes into your throat everytime he walks in a room" to "I don't really like him all that much, and I can totally talk to him about the girl he's dating without getting jealous... mostly" -- I think this demonstrates an extraordinary amount of willpower, on my end. Mostly, it was just a lot of self respect: after four months of wanting nothing but this, I was not going to let it happen while we were both this drunk and unable to remember it and/or possibly actually DO it.

So I curled up on the sofa, after searching in vain for a blanket. And then I threw up. (In the bathroom.)

Back to the sofa, I was so cold I couldn't sleep... so I braved it, and took refuge in the bedroom. Again, he started - assuming that my presence constituted consent, and when his hand went down my skirt I simply said: "Please don't."

He stopped. We curled up, went to bed. He slept. I don't think I did, mostly, for a long time, so completely confused and befuddled about what had just happened and what it meant and all the stupid shit that girls think about instead of sleeping in the middle of the night.

The next morning, we woke at 7, and the lights were so bright I couldn't handle it, so I went back to bed. He mocked me for being a lightweight at 9 when I got up for good, we watched 2 hours of Law & Order and pretended like nothing happened. Then he took me back to my car.

Then began the endless analysis that only a woman can provide -- is he an idiot? Is he so confused that he doesn't know which of these women he actually wants? Is he conflicted about our working situation? Does he secretly have a crush on me he can't let out until he's drunk? And then it got nasty: Maybe he was just really drunk and I was there. Does he disrespect me so much that he would use me that way? That he would use me being drunk? Worse still, that he would use me having feelings for him?

It goes on from there, but I'll spare you the details -- you get the drift.

So finally, after a full day of the "spin cycle", I realized there was only one thing to do: Call him. If only to figure out if my friend was actually a douche bag.

After a slightly awkward intro, I told him I was trying to figure out what happened the other night. He said "Nothing happened."

"Well, yes, I know 'nothing' happened, but ... wait. Do you remember what happened?"

"Uh. No."

Not a minute of it. Not a hair pulled. Not a finger sucked. Not a hand up my shirt or a cuddle goodnight. He has no recollection of anything that happened.

He apologized. Just enough to make it sound genuine, and not so much that it sounded like it would be something he'd horribly regret. He felt lousy, he said. Yes, well, I have been pretty fucked the past few days so... have fun with that. We both agreed we should drink less.


So there it is. For whatever reason, it makes me feel better to know he doesn't remember. It makes me feels great that I stopped him. And it makes me feel horrible to think what it would be like if I hadn't.