florida, part two

In which our heroine has to say: I stand corrected.

The Bartender (as I am loathe to call him, but will continue to do so for lack of a more suitable code name) put the Greater Jupiter drinking crowd phone tree into swift action on Saturday and hunted my number down like a bloodhound.

So Saturday night I was back on the bar stool at Nick's Tomato Pie, shooting the shit with Grandpa Joe and trying to defend my mother's honor against her uncouth Quebecois pseudo-suitor. Then suddenly it was back to the Bistro for bundt cake and Irish coffee, waiting for my date to close up shop. I should mention here what a fabulous time I had this weekend. Visiting my mother in her new town is starting to feel like a "home," a place with friends and regular haunts and a routine (albeit one of running ourselves utterly ragged and wailing to Michael Bublé in the car).

What followed was both amazing and unexpected. Highlights include: closing the club in Palm Beach Gardens, dancing to Empire State of Mind, knocking back tequila like a pro with a sweaty, mustachioed man named Justice, late night mozzarella sticks, dog walking, and going to sleep well after daybreak.

I felt alive for the first time in months and, more relevantly, I felt like a twenty-five year old ought to feel. I had fun. It was easy. Drink, dance, kiss. Say yes instead of no. Go out instead of hide. Act before I think. Sing to Irish restauranteurs and the gathered company of line chefs on the way out the door . . .

I was fearless. I didn't let myself overanalyze. I didn't back myself into any corners. I didn't say, "No, you can't do that, you're a big nerd and everybody knows it."

Maybe I'll see this guy again, maybe not. He was sweet and sexy and absolutely adorable and he made my weekend. What's more, he made me feel like a woman (for the first time in years).

So there.

I'd like to thank all involved for these delicious stirrings of Spring. They were more than necessary.