Many, many years ago, in the year 2000, I was a workaholic.
I had a job in political consulting (cha-cha-cha, soooo D.C.) I know that everyone says they work too many hours, because busy is the adult version of "popular." To that, I say: I kept a blanket and pillow under my desk for the nights I had to sleep over. So chew on that while I continue my tale.
Most of my attempts at dating were a disaster. I had no free time, and the little time I had was spent drinking discount Shiner Bocks at Asylum with my sister, or taking random road trips to South of the Border with my colleagues.
I met a guy, at the Red Lion. (Hard to believe, but once upon a time I was young enough to meet boys at the Red Lion.) We started to date. It was tricky, because I worked all the time and he was busy with his burgeoning substance abuse issues. Then, a few weeks later, Valentine's Day came. I had worked 18 of the previous 24 hours, and wasn't in the mood to go out. But, foolishly, I went anyway.
We headed over to a cute little French restaurant. I ordered the salmon. As we ate our dinner at the so-cute-you-could-die little table, I began to feel drowsy. Then I fell asleep. Face-first into my plate. Oh, and I drooled. And there were flecks of pink salmon meat in my hair. I'm sure it was quite attractive.
That was it for that relationship.
I stayed friends with the guy for a while. We did fun stuff, like scrape body paint off his back from an art project he'd participated in. He got sober, too. Over a year later, he asked me out for dinner and a play. Halfway through the evening, he said, "Do you know why I asked you out on a date tonight?"
My response: "Because you've been sober for a year and your sponsor said you could date?"
And that was really it for that relationship.