If You Closed the Door, Keep It Shut.

Repeat Offender

Ingredients:
1 oz Tequila
3 oz 7-Up
Juice from 1 Lime
Repeat with a Float of Tequila
Lime Slice, for garnish

Directions:
Fill a lowball glass with ice. Combine the tequila, 7-Up, and juice from 1 lime in the glass. Stir. Repeat with a float of tequila. Garnish with a slice of lime.


Break-ups are the perfect excuse for bad behavior. It’s that special window where spray tans, lemon fasts, and OPBs (on purpose black-outs) are all perfectly acceptable. Unfortunately, I was four weeks into my break-up, and had yet to enjoy the perks of being dumped.

Lazily draped over my vinyl couch, I looked out the window for a change of scenery. Three fat men were smoking cigars on the balcony next to a plastic snowman. The freakishly short one puffed in my direction because he knew this was the closest I had gotten to a party in weeks. Closing the curtains, I decided it was time to get out there and make some bad decisions.

Two hours later, I sat in the passenger seat of a Jetta en route to the Troubadour with my ex-boyfriend (or whatever you call that guy you date for two months). I stepped out of the car, three blocks from the venue, and wondered whether our spontaneous outing was a date, a group event, or simply a spare ticket to Interpol for that lucky gal who had passed out on her couch. Watching Alex roll a joint, I decided I had no idea. The only thing I was certain of at this point was my newly single ass had grown with such enthusiasm that I no longer fit into my underwear. It felt good to be out.

Alex passed the joint, explaining that we had ten minutes to walk to the venue, get high, and pick up our tickets before the band came on. “I’m not good at smoking pot,” I said as if I was about to endanger a team sport.

“I know,” he said with a mischievous grin that let me know we were on a date. While we had only dated for two months, we had spent the last two years trying to recapture that one stoned moment when we thought our relationship might work out. Unfortunately, our perfect moment was cut short by a leaky roof that turned out to be his chest sweat dripping onto my face.

Stepping into the Troubadour, Alex led us to the back bar. Unable to feel my teeth, I turned to the bartender and ordered a cold beer. My cottonmouth had kicked in with such severity that the only thing I could utter was, “Bud.”

Without warning, thirty-seven of Alex’s closest friends started to close in around us. I clung to the bar, hoping no one would talk to me, and realized no one wanted to. I was the “ex” who wasn’t around long enough to be an ex-girlfriend. I was just an ex, and yet here I was again.

Midway between my first and last sip of beer, Alex asked me to come home with him. Staring into his blue eyes, and his sweet smile, I wanted to. Only I knew that we were no more in sync tonight than any other night. He knew it too. We had one bright stony moment together, but that’s all we were meant to have. At least that’s what I told him to avoid the bit about his chest hair leaking onto my face. After all, I had made enough bad decisions for one night.

Suggested Number of Drinks: