Authors: Stacey Wiedower
She felt three sets of eyes on her back as she walked away.
* * *
It was 1 a.m. when Erin walked through her front door, and she almost bumped into TJ on his way out.
"Oh. Bye," she said, surprised.
"Unh." He shrugged past her and disappeared through the open doorway.
Erin swiveled her head toward Sherri, who'd appeared in the doorway between the living room and back hall.
"What's with him?"
"Hmm?" Sherri appeared to wake up from a sort of trance. "Oh, he just woke up," she said.
Erin's eyes swept down Sherri's curvy frame, clad only in a men's button-down style nightshirt, most of the buttons undone. Erin reddened a little, feeling like she'd walked in at just the wrong moment.
"You had a good night, I take it."
"Mmm-hmm," Sherri said, not elaborating.
Must have been a very good night.
"Well, since you're up, I have a question to ask you," Erin said, dropping her purse on the entry table and moving toward the hallway door. She stepped out of her flip-flops and bent to pick them up before moving past Sherri toward her room.
Sherri followed her. "What?" She finally seemed to notice her scantily clad state and started buttoning her nightshirt.
"Got any vacation time? I'm about to book a trip to Paris, and I'm wondering if you want to go with."
The haze of Sherri's afterglow suddenly disappeared, and her eyes grew wide.
"I am so in."
She looked like she was about to jump up and down, and Erin smiled, glad for the first time that Ben had turned her down. She'd been afraid Sherri wouldn't want to or wouldn't be able to go, meaning she'd have to consider inviting Hilary.
Erin shuddered and thought,
Nope
. She'd invite any of at least six or seven old friends, sorority sisters or co-workers before that happened—or go alone. The last thing she wanted to do with Hilary mere weeks before her wedding was lead her on a Parisian guy-hunting expedition. She wouldn't be responsible for
that
potential fallout. Besides, in this instance she was the bachelorette, not Hilary.
Sherri pushed past her into the room and Erin shook her head, remembering her original aim. She changed out of her jeans and into candy-striped boxer shorts and a T-shirt with a pink Longhorns logo, explaining her travel plans to Sherri as she crossed the room and stuffed her dirty clothes into her white wicker hamper. Sherri left to retrieve her laptop from her bedroom and then came back and settled herself onto the middle of Erin's bed. She began tapping at the keyboard, entering dates into airline websites as Erin looked over her shoulder.
By 2 a.m. they'd found a flight. They didn't buy the tickets—Sherri convinced Erin to let her watch prices for a week or so to see if they could get a better deal. Erin shrugged and agreed, though she'd already decided money was no object. But Sherri
was
an accountant, so she was more than happy to turn over the financial planning. Sure, she knew numbers, but finances were a different story.
Now that plans for the trip were set, excitement and nervousness and a thrill of fear mingled in the pit of Erin's stomach. What was she doing? Would she really be able to find a Parisian man to go out with, if just for the sake of a good blog post? Could she handle it if she did?
She squared her shoulders. Of course she could handle it. Could Paris
handle
her
—that was the question. Suddenly she saw how suited she was for this mission of hers. She'd never been one to back down from a challenge. And for her, dating was nothing if not a challenge.
Sherri snapped her computer shut, stood, and stretched her arms toward the ceiling. Then she yawned and started toward the door. Just before she reached it she turned to look at Erin.
"We're going to Paris," she said, and squealed.
Erin wasn't a squealer, but in this instance she shrieked like a bachelorette who'd just learned she'd made the final rose ceremony.
They were going to Paris.
The Countdown Begins
April 12: fourteen months to thirty
April 12: Date 1
Name:
Ben*
Age:
28
Job:
Geneticist
List:
Improve my pop culture education (aka No. 7: Watch every Academy Award Best Picture winner)**
This kind of feels like cheating, since I know Ben better than I know anybody else in the world. Even though this was technically a date, it felt more like a random Saturday night. There was no pressure and none of that getting-to-know-each-other small talk that usually happens on a first date. There was also no first-kiss anxiety, no "should I invite him in?" drama and no stress over what to wear. This man has seen me at my worst—in sweats, without makeup, first thing in the morning and totally hung over. He saw me in my first pair of glasses and my entire two years in braces, and he was a firsthand witness to the Giant Zit Incident of junior year. He's smelled my morning breath and held my hair back while I puked. Multiple times.
My God, why does he even still talk to me???
I digress. So, normally in these posts I'll describe my dates in detail, but this time there
are
no juicy details to report. Ben and I had dinner at a sushi place I'd been wanting to try on the Belt Line and then went back to my apartment and watched two movies (An American in Paris and All Quiet on the Western Front). So in this, my first official "date post," instead of telling you about my date I'm going to lay out a few ground rules for the blog:
1. No sex. That is, if it happens, I won't write about it—this isn't that kind of blog. But also
…
2. The blog is about first dates only—and I'm not that kind of girl. However, if, in the process of completing this mission, I find a guy who warrants a second or third or fourth date (based on past experience and what I know about my luck, this isn't incredibly likely), I won't refuse to go down that path. But I won't blog about it (see No. 1).
3. Every guy I write about here will know he's being blogged about. I might not always tell him beforehand. I'm not sure whether that would help or hurt my date-getting ability. But before I write a post I'll give the guy fair warning.
4. On my dates I'll go Dutch treat. I'm not looking for a sugar daddy, so don't judge.
* In future, names will be changed to protect the innocent—or guilty—but in this instance, Ben is his real name. He's also my friend, and he'll be guest-posting occasionally on this blog.
** Since the blog came about because of my Thirty by Thirty List, I'm going to complete an item from my list on every date.
One down, twenty-nine to go! My next date is already set for next weekend, so I'll be back soon. Wish me luck
….
Erin read over her words for the fifth or sixth time, clicked "submit post," and scooted her chair back from the kitchen table. Then she slumped down in it, her legs splayed out in front of her.
"What's wrong?" asked Sherri, stepping around her to get to the refrigerator. She opened it and pulled out a blue and white carton of organic skim milk. She carried it to the counter beside the pantry and opened the door, coming out with a box of Cocoa Puffs that totally negated the milk's health benefits.
Erin pushed herself up in her chair and stood up to get her own bowl.
"I don't know. Nothing," she said. Sherri glanced past her to the computer, where Erin's new post gleamed from the illuminated screen. "It's just, I don't know. Is this pointless? I mean, nobody's ever going to read this besides you, Hilary and, unless I can help it, my mom. I'm wasting my time."
Sherri looked at her thoughtfully.
"Well, what is it that you want to get out of it?" She paused as Erin reached around her for the milk. "Is it just something to pass the time, like a hobby, or are you using it to push you to meet your goals? Because I don't think it's pointless at all. I mean, yeah, so maybe you won't actually meet some perfect 'bachelor' or whatever, and maybe you won't have a ton of readers on your blog, but you will see Paris, and improve your French, and read some great books and have really cool experiences." She paused again. "Think about it. If you hadn't started this blog, would you really be doing all the things on your list? Because if it wasn't for you, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be—and it was my idea in the first place."
Erin nodded slowly, thinking that was probably true. She glanced at the refrigerator door, where Sherri had hung a hot pink poster with flower-shaped magnets. She'd written "Countdown to 30: Sherri's List" at the top and hand-printed the items on her list with checkboxes beside them. So far she'd checked off one item: "Take swimming lessons."
Erin felt her insides lift. As flighty as Sherri could sometimes come across, her bursts of insight were frequent and always seemed to come at just the right moments.
She'll make a great mom someday.
She sat down with her bowl of chocolaty puffs and smiled.
"Yum. I don't think I've had these since middle school."
"Yeah, well. Live a little." Sherri nodded toward the laptop, which had gone into sleep mode. "That is the point, right?"
* * *
All week at work, Erin mulled over the blog. Her date with Nate was Saturday, and by Thursday she still wasn't sure, A, which item from her list she'd incorporate into the night, and B, how she was going to go about finding dates for future blog posts once she'd exhausted these first two easy options.
Salsa lessons?
No, salsa seemed a little too suggestive for a date with Nate. She shuddered.
Opera?
Nah, Nate wasn't an opera kind of guy, although she wasn't exactly an opera kind of girl, either.
She studied the list, which she'd posted in the "Notes" section of her phone. Her eyes kept moving back to No. 9: Crash a wedding.
Bingo.
Now there was an idea Nate seemed well-suited for. She smiled to herself.
But how to find a wedding to crash? She decided to start with the lifestyle section of
The Dallas Morning News
. She pulled up the paper's mobile app and took a bite of her cafeteria-bought chicken salad sandwich.
"What are you smiling about?"
Erin glanced up from her phone to find Dave Barber standing over her. Dave taught tenth-grade art, supervised the drama club, and knew a lot more than she did about fashion. He was wiry but not tall, with pale skin and an unruly mop of light orange hair that today was tamed by a Burberry plaid beret. Below it he wore faded gray skinny jeans, gray Converse high-tops, and a maroon V-neck sweater with shirttails sticking out of the bottom.
Dave was her most frequent dining partner in the teacher's lounge. They were usually joined by Dan Wagner, a history teacher who coached the men's soccer team, and Angie Russell, who coached women's volleyball. Erin glanced across the room, where Jess Mickelson, the faculty's self-appointed queen bee, finger-combed her hair in a compact mirror while reigning over a contingent of freshmen English teachers, her current drones. Erin shook her head. Whoever thought the social hierarchy of the high school cafeteria ended with a diploma had obviously never spent thirty minutes in a teacher's lounge. Twenty-eight years old and still not a member of the in-crowd. Luckily, she still didn't care.
She suddenly remembered Dave had asked her a question.
"Eh, you know, just stuff." She minimized the app on her screen and set the phone down beside her lunch.
Dave visibly perked. "Guy stuff?"
He pulled back the faded yellow plastic chair across from hers and dropped into it. Its legs ground against the ancient tile floor with a grating, metallic screech as he scooted up to the table. He plunked the stack of papers he was holding onto the tabletop and waited, but Erin didn't answer his question.
"Come on, you can tell me."
When she still didn't say anything, he scowled.
"Come on, I'm great at dating advice. Just because I'm married doesn't mean I don't remember what it was like to be single. Let me live vicariously."
She took a bite of her sandwich, chewed and swallowed. "It's not like that, really. This isn't guy trouble or anything—if it were that simple I'd tell you. But unless you have any experience crashing weddings, I don't think you can help me."
He looked at her like she'd just said aliens were landing on the roof of the building. Hell, maybe that would have been a more sane statement.
"You're breaking up a wedding? Like a Benjamin Braddock-type thing? I didn't even know you were interested in anybody."
Erin wrinkled her nose and stared at him, not comprehending. "Benjamin Braddock?"
Dave stared back. "
The Graduate
? You know, Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft? Bursting into the church? Knocking on the glass?" He waved his arms wildly in the air, eliciting glances and whispers from the "cool kids" across the room. "Elaine! Elaine!"
Erin just shrugged.
His jaw went slack. "Girl. You have got to brush up on your cinematic history."
She perked up. "I know. I'm working on it. By any chance, did
The Graduate
win Best Picture?"
He shook his head and gave her a look that was equal parts dismayed and curious. "No. It was robbed."
"Oh." She felt a tinge of disappointment. "Anyway, I'm not
breaking up
a wedding. I'm
crashing
a wedding. You know, Vince Vaughn? Owen Wilson?"
Now, movies circa 2005, she knew.
Dave gave her a disapproving look. "I've seen
Wedding Crashers
. It's no
Graduate
, but it's good stuff in its own way." He scratched his spindly red hipster beard. "So tell me, why the hell are you crashing a—"