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Friday May 30, 2008 // By Sandy

Reviving my inner twenty-four-year-old


It’s just past midnight and I’ve just gotten home from a Frightened Rabbit concert at the Double Door. This is remarkable since my rate of concert-going is only slightly higher than my rate of Ouzo-drinking, which is to say, just frequent enough to remind me why I don’t do it. I’m an old man; the effect that standing for hours in a crowded, obscenely loud club has on me is, sadly, hilariously, to put me to sleep. But this band earned points due to the singer’s lovely Scottish brogue, and I had a free night, and Sarah needed some time alone to practice her Karting.

Before I left, considering this was to be my first visit to a club in a while, I thought it’d be best to lay out some ground rules.

Me: “I think it’d be best to lay out some ground rules. How many strange women am I allowed to flirt with?”

Sarah: (Thinking) “Two.”

Me: “And how many can I make out with?”

Sarah: “One.”

Me: “Wha-?! Can I have that in writing?”

Sarah: “Nope!”

Me: “Can you call Scott and repeat it to him?”

Sarah: “No way. And if you claim I said it, I’ll deny everything.”

Me: (Eyes narrowed, looking deep into Sarah’s) “... I don’t think you were being serious.”

Sarah: “Well done. Have a good time!”

Not that she has anything to worry about. Sarah knows there’s only one kind of person who’d allow me to flirt with her — a special blend of suburban-Jewish-storyteller’s daughter-teacher girl — and I’m quite pleased with the one I’ve got.

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