I’m as sweaty as …

by A.E. Storm in The Climacteric | 0 comments

When my longtime friends invited Charlie and me to a Saturday afternoon barbeque Charlie was a little skeptical. He was still reeling from the debacle I created at his niece’s birthday party. Well, he calls it a debacle, I call it his mother’s a bitch. I can be such an infant sometimes.

I told him that Geoff and Gregory, whom I’ve started calling Gigi when I’m speaking to or about both of them, would not be blatantly distrustful of the thirteen-year gap in our ages. Or would show any level of distrust for that matter. Of course they might read him the riot-act about being good to me, but I instinctively left that to myself.

“I don’t know,” Charlie started, with an expression of disgust like he just ate a Brussels sprout. “Our track record for fun family and friends gatherings is not so good.”

I smirked. “We’ve been to one. Stop acting like me, it’s unbecoming.”

He smiled. “Everything about you is becoming.”  I think my response was the same expression like I’d just ate a Brussels sprout.

“I don’t like when you do that, Tommy.” He chided me.

“What?” I said it with exasperation, but I knew what he meant.

“Never mind. Fine, you win, we’ll go to your friends’ party.” He took my hand and and pulled me for a hug, at which I stepped on his foot.

“Oh, sorry!” I apologized as we hugged awkwardly. He just laughed.

The day of the barbeque, the temperature spiked at 94 degrees … but it felt like 95. The party was in full swing when Charlie and I arrived with marinated boneless chicken breasts, our contribution because, well, honestly I can’t eat meat off the bone, my gag reflex kicks in, and I know from experience that Gigi love bones. They’re like junkyard dogs.

As the afternoon progressed and the temperature felt like 96 degrees, I was gloating and patting myself on the back, which by the way was beginning to make my arm hurt, about how swimmingly Gigi and Charlie were getting along. Once George laid down the law about my heart to him — as if George had a stake in it — they were as close as best friends.

After we enjoyed a nice spread of great barbeque fare, Gigi, Charlie and I kicked our feet up around the patio table and shared in some great conversation, that is until the beer began flowing a little too rapidly.

In one of those awkward seven seconds of silence, Geoff blurted, “I’m as sweaty as Ryan Seacrest watching Brokeback Mountain!” We all burst into laughter.

“I’m as sweaty as Michael Jackson at a middle school,” Charlie suddenly chimed in. I shot him a look that I was not amused, but then we all burst out laughing again.

“I’m as sweaty as the underside of Dolly Parton’s boobs!” My contribution.

“I’m as sweaty as Lindsay Lohan in a department store,” Gregory joked.

Eventually, we came to the realization that it would be more entertaining as a drinking game: If you don’t think of one within five seconds you must pass your turn and take a drink from your beer.

“I’m as sweaty as a Mexican crossing the Rio Grande!” I said it within the allotted time but I took a drink anyhow, as if it would wash away the guilt I was feeling. No pun intended.

“I’m as sweaty as Ellen DeGeneres on top of Portia de Rossi!”

“I’m as sweaty as Elizabeth Smart in a turban!”

“I’m as sweaty as Big Buddha on an early morning walk!”

“I’m as sweaty as the Pope in a Mormon Temple!”

The game continued on for a dozen or more rounds before it came to a screeching halt. I had been forced to skip my last four turns because, in my beer-haze, I couldn’t come up with a witty analogy under five seconds, so I finally just blurted out on my turn, “I’m as sweaty as Molly Ringwald on the set of The Secret Life of the American Teenager!” This led to me being chastised incessantly by Gigi and Charlie about watching ABC Family channel. Again, in the beer-haze, all I could say was “It’s a new kind of family!” I can be such a putz.

“Charlie, come to the bathroom with me,” I then said, struggling out of the chair.

“Why?”

“Pleeeaaaseee!” I used the infamous drunken-drawl.

When I get drunk, I’m overcome with fear about going to the bathroom alone, I prefer to use the “buddy system,” like I’m worried I’ll get lost along the way or accidentally pee in the sink — it’s not an irrational fear since one of these two things has happened to me before.

“Alright, don’t get your panties all twisted up,” he remarked in a playful huff.

“I really like your friends,” Charlie then said as he followed me into the house.

I abruptly turned around and said, “Oh, you like Gigi” as we bumped into each other. Again, he just laughed at my clumsiness.

He followed me into the cramped bathroom and closed the door behind us. I undid my damn, annoying button-fly.
“Tommy, move about a foot to the right.”