My Date With Destiny

A name is an important thing.  I often think about how much different my life might be if my parents had only tried to be a little more creative.  Sometimes when I’m bored I think about the glamorous life I could be leading, if only they had settled on “Oprah,” or “Ivanka,” or “Snookie.” But instead, I’m a monosyllabic bore. And not only that, when it came time to choose my own name I baptized myself the “Disaster on Heels.” It’s like I took one look at  fate, tucked my skirt into my underwear, and gave it the middle finger.

Tonight, while celebrating my inner Disaster for National Singles Week, I met up for a blogging date with Jess Downey–a Chicago freelance writer who has made a name for herself dishing the inside scoop on the single life. I had so many questions, like: are you afraid that since you’ve labeled yourself “The Single Girl,” you’ll have to stay single forever? (Her answer there, by the way, was no.)  And, more importantly,  if paparazzi shows up, do I pretend I see them? Or do I pretend I’m too cool?  I ordered chicken tenders, sipped Stella, and took copious mental notes.

Finally, when the bar had filled up with enough button-down shirts to warrant a swoop, we decided to pay the bill and embark on the hunt.  When the check arrived, I reached into my bag and started digging. I found a hair tie, a pair of flip flops (emergency use only), lip gloss, my iPhone, a dry cleaning receipt…but no wallet.  I tried to act cool:

“Must be buried under here,” I said, laying the items on the table while starting to panic.

“No problem,” she said, but her eyes told a different story — it was the “no way this is happening” look that I’ve worn too many times on too many dates. Was I that guy? The one who orders the New York Strip and three cocktails while you order hummus dip and a Diet Coke, and then conveniently forgets his wallet?

No. My wallet was most definitely not in my bag. Which meant only one thing: it was stolen on the way over when I walked the six blocks to the bar with an unzipped purse.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  I’m not cheap, I’m  just delivering on a promise: I am, as destiny would have it, a Disaster on Heels.

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