Cowboy meets girl, part 2

The cowboy had disappeared into the crowded bar.

And I swear, something happened to my brain. I couldn’t hear the music. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even move.

For my friends, the novelty had worn off and they were more than ready to go. And, if you didn’t know it, young college girls move in herds. And there was absolutely no way they were leaving me. Because I drove them there.

But also because they were my friends. And they were now thoroughly scared of country bars.

But I had to find him. I had to see him again. I had to ….. give him my number.

Now, I had never hardly had any boy ever call me. And I’d certainly never, ever given a boy my number. And I’d never given a cowboy I met in a bar before my number. And if my daughters ever do that, I’ll kill them.

Which is what my friends were probably thinking. Because they put it up to a vote.

It was decided, after much pleading and foot stomping on my part, that I could go find him and give him my number. But only if I took Tory with me. And she was from California. And tried to talk me out of it the whole time we looked for him.

We found him standing with his cowboy friends. I don’t know what came over me, but I walked right into the middle of the group and asked him if he wanted my number.

He was shocked speechless. It took him a minute. During which, I died a thousand times. But he finally recovered and said yes. He walked me out to his truck, where he had a pen and paper and wrote down my number.

Years later, my friends would tell me it was a good thing he drove a nice new truck. Because they were fully prepared to kidnap me and have my phone number changed if he drove something scary. (Little did we know that years later, I’d be plowing through the snow in a 1978 Ford one-ton, with no heat and a huge hole in the passenger floorboard, looking for a lost cow.)

It took him a week. But he called.

And I wasn’t there.

So I called him.

And he wasn’t there.

Which went on and on for about a week. After leaving the fourth message, I started to feel a little foolish. I mean, every time I called him I would have to work myself up to it. And the second I would hear it ringing over the line, every thought would fly right out of my head. I actually was scared he would answer.

Finally, we both found ourselves next to a phone at the same time. We decided to go out on a Wednesday night after I finished up on a play I was working on at the time. So for three days, I was freaking out. What would I wear? What would I say? What would I do? Would I make a fool of myself?

And to be brutally honest, would I still think he was cute in the light of day? It was dark and smokey in that bar. Would I even recognize him?

On Wednesday night I was freaking out! To manage the stress, I ironed everything in my closet (that’s what I do to relieve stress. I even iron my socks.) It was almost time for him to pick me up. I carefully dressed in my favorite outfit — freshly ironed jeans, a lavender sweater and my brand new dr. martin sandles.

I went around the dorm at least six times asking everyone if they thought I looked okay. The answers were mixed, but girls can be brutally honest. And there was no time to dye my hair.

And I waited for the call from the front desk to let me know he was there to pick me up. And I was freaking out.


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