Yes, of course you can meet cute chicks at New Year’s Eve parties!
About 20 years ago, I was performing magic on New Year’s Eve at a party at a Hollywood restaurant. There was lots of noise and partying, and in the performance of a feat of magic, I seemed to establish a connection with a petite young blonde named Sheila. Meaningful gazes and grins were shot in my direction. I caught them and pocketed them for later redemption. When midnight struck, I gave her a nice little kiss and asked for her phone number. Walking away from the gig at 1 am, I was excited about the prospects, even though Sheila lived way the hell out in Hemet, a desert community in Southern California.
We made a date for the second week in January. I drove the hour out to Hemet and got off on some godforsaken exit off the Whatever Freeway. I knocked on Sheila’s door and was greeted with a lovely, smiling blonde. She didn’t look exactly the same as she had on New Year’s Eve–nobody does–but she looked lovely, nonetheless.
We got into my car and drove to the Olive Garden.
“It’s the only halfway interesting restaurant in all of Hemet,” she said.
The conversation stalled a bit, and I glanced over and noticed she looked a little nervous.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“It’s been a rough week,” she said.
“In what way?”
“Well, okay, I didn’t expect to tell you this early, but I have a confession to make.”
“Okay,” I said, smiling.
I like confessions. They not only allow people the opportunity to be honest, which is a rare commodity these days, but they also allow you the opportunity to forgive. Fact is, I’m quite a forgiving person.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
My silence surprised even me. In fact, I had never had quite that kind of moment on a date before. Not many people have, I’d venture. It was kind of like her saying, Do you want to just skip all the good parts of the romance and jump into all the angst, pain, and drama?
Turns out Sheila had slept with a guy a couple months earlier. The relationship, or whatever you call it after one night, hadn’t worked out. Then the previous week, she’d found out that she was pregnant. Apparently, termination wasn’t even a remote possibility.
“I’m from Texas,” she said by way of explanation.
“On top of that, he’s not the kind of guy I would want as a Dad.”
Then why don’t you consider termination? I thought. Why would you want to pass on his loser genes to your own child?
Oh yeah. She’s from Texas.
Sheila’s solution, she explained over dinner, was to move back in with her parents back in Shameonyou, Texas. Okay, fine, whatever. What does this have to do with me?
We finished our strange meal at the Hemet Olive Garden and then I drove her back to her place and walked her to the door. That’s when she gave me that look, the one that in normal times, you so desire to receive.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked tentatively, looking at me sideways.
It was a long drive back from Hemet.