Today was Friday and a few of my co-workers invited me to join them at a happy hour on St. James Square. Naturally I said no, I wasn’t one for crowded places and I wouldn’t be having fun if I was anxious; yes I know that I shouldn’t feel anxious in social situations but I disdained the idea of an unfamiliar location, with unfamiliar people, doing unfamiliar things like dancing, the heavens know that I was born with two left feet and thus I was blessed with a nice bottom so I could plant my happy in a seat and not move unless I had to use the bathroom. It took a lot of coaxing from who I would consider my closest friend at work, Sarah, who told me that she had the perfect cure to rid me of my anxiety for the night. I know what her cure was, it was alcohol; lots and lots of alcohol.

       “I think I’ll pass,” I said, grimacing at the memory of the last time I went out with Sarah for her Bachelorette party, I was so out of it that apparently I ended up passing out in the walk in pantry of her parent’s house. Imagine the next morning when her mom found me sprawled out on the floor holding the bag of double milk chocolate Milano’s in one hand and a half eaten Milano in the other. What could I say, double milk chocolate Milano’s were my downfall even when drunk.

Sarah leaned forward against my desk with a smug expression on her face, “what if I told you that your cutie who lives on the floor on top of yours is there every Friday night with his friend?”