The Trouble with Being a Good Time
Since Apparently Meatballs Don't Get a Head Count
I’ve been thinking about those of us that call ourselves chameleons. Usually, we’re expressing that we’re adaptable, flexible. Still authentic, but able to shape shift to comfortably enjoy different types of situations and people.
I think I’m a chameleon not only because I can adapt, but because sometimes you can tell I can’t. You’ve definitely seen red if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of my anger.
There’s the part of me impressing corporate leaders 9 to 5, and another spending Friday afternoon at a museum or cinema. The Darry who writes, and the Darry who’s ditzy. The Darry who ends up in a bush at 2 AM in Downtown Orlando, Messica.
It’s all me. Personalities, versions, alter egos, whatever you want to call them, all coexisting in my world. But Saturday night left me with battle scars, an urgent care visit, and a broken door frame. I couldn’t help but wonder why these parts of me were never in the same room.
The Virgo Look
Gabriel, who lives in the apartment across from me, knocked on my door Sunday afternoon. He was probably visiting to catch up on weekend shenanigans over this week’s episode of Drag Race.
He almost dropped the champagne bottle when he saw my face.
“Who are we beating up?”
I gave him the rundown of my Saturday night.
“Give me your phone. I’m blocking them right now.”
“No! You can’t block him, he’s one of my best friends!”
He gave me a look only a virgo could give. “You’re going to have to reconsider what a friend is.”
I’m Ditzy fucking Darry, of course I made it home.
Our last stop for the night was Anthem, Orlando’s newest gay club, and it was the most fun I’ve had here so far. Towards the end of the night my friends Juniper and Levi were getting escorted out by security, interrupting a flirtatious conversation I was having with a cute guy visiting from Boston. I followed them out because we arrived together, so we leave together. Right?
When I got outside, everyone was gone. I walk towards the parking lot, but turn on Robinson a block too soon.
With nobody in sight, I decide to stay put because I wasn’t about to have some rom-com moment where we miss each other by walking opposite sides of the block. So I sit pretty in the brightest, most visible part of the street: the public charging lot for electric cars.
And then, my phone slips out of my hand and into a bush.
I saw exactly where it fell, but there must’ve been some type of rabbit hole it dropped into because I couldn’t find it. So here I am: on all fours, intoxicated, realizing humans can have complicated relationships with partners, parents, and apparently, bushes.
I get self-conscious. I’m probably giving ‘Crackhead in Wonderland’ about to fall into the same rabbit hole. So I decide Find My will handle it later.
And so I keep sitting pretty, for longer than I’d like to admit, knowing it was the smart thing to do. They’ll find me, I’m only a block away…
No car. No Juniper. No Levi. Not even someone to charge their Tesla.
It’s fine, I’ll walk. Body tea, mental GPS on, independent woman playlist on my invisible AirPods.
Within the first few steps, I trip over the curb and fall into another bush. At this point, I think my girl Tia is sending me signs I’m overdue for my Brazilian.
I walked from Downtown to the Hourglass District. Alone. Feeling like Sydney fucking Prescott.
Final Girl Realness
I’m staring at myself in the mirror and I look like a final girl after the credits roll. My makeup is gone. A cheek now adorned with a scrape. Not what I meant when I said I needed new blush.
No phone, no keys. I had to break into my apartment to get in. I’ll fix the doorframe before I move out (or the next inspection).
The NYC Way
I spent Monday pretending it didn’t happen, but by Tuesday I was ready to talk about it. Vivian is a friend from New York who happened to be in town. I invited her to Tamale Co, Hourglass District’s Mexican street food staple.
“Mad fucked up. It don’t matter if y’all beefing, you being a whole mess—they needed to find you.”
She started to tell me about a night out with one of her own girls. On the way home from the club, her friend jumped out of their uber at a red light. Vivian followed, but couldn’t keep up.
“That sobered me up real quick, but I’m not leaving a female out there alone. I told the driver to take me to whatever bar was still open and deadass, she was there. I beat her ass and dragged her back to 67th to find my bracelet. We ain’t cool no more, but I wasn’t gonna leave her. You just don’t do that. Not how I move.”
I asked Vivian if she thought this happened because ‘I’m Madonna,’ what I’m known as in New York. The main character of adventures that become memorable tales people ask me to share again and again.
She laughed. “It’s giving Am I the Drama?” Now she was holding my hands. “I don’t see you doing anything that makes this okay. Am I surprised? No. I’ll be surprised when you get somebody pregnant, but we’ve partied before. You said it yourself, you’re a meatball.”
Onion Theory
Shrek was right about the onions. It’s not the most glamorous metaphor, but it’s honest. Layers.
Different situations get different layers, and most people never get past the first layer they see. Arguably, they don’t need to. Some of us are careful not to peel away too much of ourselves when sharing with others, which can become an agreement we don’t realize we’re making.
Messica is great for a fun night. She makes you feel warm, gets you on the floor (no JLO), knows where the after and after-after party is. Messica is who they signed up for—just not who they show up for.
I spent the rest of the weekend trying to be fair about it. They got kicked out, so there was chaos, maybe confusion? I’m an adult and people can’t always account for everyone when a night falls apart.
But then I think about Gabriel almost dropping our champagne, ready to fight. Vivian chasing her friend on 67th at 4 AM. Neither of them needed to peel more layers to justify making sure their friend is safe and no one is left behind.
The difference wasn’t as symbolic as I was trying to make it be.
What Mom Thinks
“It’s not about being independent or knowing your way home. It’s about loyalty.”
