"You look absolutely stunning," said Hot Tub Tim as I answered the door wearing the most elegant dress I'd ever owned. Stunning? I hadn't heard that since the day I walked down the aisle to meet the man that I would end up sharing 10 years and two children with. Just the sound of the word made my heart skip a beat. Suddenly, I was glad that I had returned the bracelet I'd been given from someone who turned out to be a less than savory character; to purchase the dress that I never would have afforded myself.
Initially, I thought if I exchanged the bracelet for something else, I'd feel cheap and disgruntled every time I looked at the trade-in. But the look on Hot Tub's face when he saw me standing in the doorway immediately swept away all of my angst.
And Hot Tub? Can you say, "S to E to the X to the mo-fo Y?" Man oh man! I'd forgotten how one look at him gave me the thigh sweats. Even after over two years of casual-in-between-boyfriends-sex based on nothing more than casual-in-between-boyfriends-sex, he still made me hot. We were a handsome pair. We were like Ken and Barbie, if Barbie were shorter, browner and a little thicker around the midsection.
As we walked toward the entry, my arm gently wrapped around Hot Tub's elbow, I felt as though I were floating on air. That is, until my heel got stuck in a crack in the tile and I almost took a face plant. But Hot Tub caught me and then, being the gentleman that he is, skipped the opportunity to laugh his ass off at my expense.
The party was amazing. A catered affair with several open bars and performers from Cirque du Soleil mixing in with the partygoers, some on their hands, some on stilts breathing fire. Harley-Davidsons roared through the house and around the pool where stars of O put on a show. The front yard housed a huge white tent, inside were comfy, beanbag-like chairs and hookah pipes o' plenty. The Heavy Heads were spinning tunes that added electricity to the air. It was perfect.
But it wasn't until later, while sitting in the master bedroom that had been deemed the "VIP" lounge, complete with velvet rope and beefy doorman, that my perfect evening became just that much more perfect.
I was sitting on the footboard of the massive bed chatting with a girlfriend when she, having just glanced up said through tight lips, "Don't look up, don't look up ..."
Instinctively, I looked up. And who was fast approaching? My less-than-savory character himself. As if pulled by strings, I stood up as he reached me, a Cheshire cat grin spreading across my newly glossed lips. It is important to note here that I am in fact just small enough that having him see me looking like a skillion bucks made me giddy. Why is there no sweeter revenge than running into an ex when you look your absolute best?
"Hello," he said in a strained voice. It was obvious that he wasn't exactly happy to see me. "What are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you too," I said, offering my cheek for him to kiss. That is what princesses do, right? He took my lead and kissed my cheek, much to his chagrin. "It's the hottest party in Vegas, why wouldn't I be here?" I asked innocently.
I think I heard him humph. Then he said, "Well, good night." And he turned to walk away. I immediately took the cue to prove once and for all just how very small I can be.
"Do you like it?" I asked, running my hands down my hips while sucking in my belly. "The dress. Do you like it?"
He took a step back to take me in and gave me an approving head nod. "It used to be a bracelet," I said, just as snarky as you please. His turn to smile as my comment registered. His turn to prove just how small he could be. "Sonja, this is Amber." He took yet another step back and waved his arm from the top of her 6-foot frame to the bottom of her nicely pedicured paws. It was a dramatic move, like a magician introducing his lovely assistant, and I couldn't help but wish he would shove her into the box of death and saw her in half.
The effect was not lost on me—she was tall, she was beautiful, and of most importance to him, she was about two dozen years old. And just like that, all the hot air I had been filled with escaped my lungs. I felt cheap and disgruntled as I looked at the trade-in. And the worst part was that I didn't even like him. I just wanted to show him that he didn't get the best of me, that I'd gotten on with my life as though he never existed. Of course, my little stunt proved otherwise and I was left feeling like a fool. Once again, he had the upper hand. Touché.
Suddenly, just like a scene in a movie, I felt a strong hand on the small of my back. I looked up into the sparkling eyes of Hot Tub Tim. "Here's your drink, baby. I'm sorry it took me so long." And with that, he bent to gently kiss the nape of my neck. Touché.
But suddenly, the stupid game I'd been playing seemed so insignificant as I took a really good look at the man who had been escorting me to parties off and on for the past two years. I saw him for the first time, and not as the hunky, take-my-mind-off-all-my-troubles-Hot-Tub-Tim role he'd so graciously accepted, but as the caring, compassionate, thoughtful man who carried my lip gloss in his pocket for me, held my arm so I didn't take a digger, and came to my rescue when I needed him most. And I wanted nothing more in the whole wide world than to finally get to know ... Tim.
Sonja is a writer who covers the ins and outs of relationships. Or is it the ups and downs?