By contributing writer Maddi Whitworth
I have a friend named Julie; of course, that isn’t her real name, because if so-called “Julie” were to find out that I not only remembered this night but went on to write about it, she would probably poison my breakfast cereal, give all my clothes to the pirate bum who lives down the street, and track down every single one of you readers to exact her revenge. (This is your warning now, close the tab, go back to the funny quotes and grow old with yourself!)
Julie is gorgeous: blonde hair, blue eyes, always drunk, not quite as tan as me but hey, that’s why I she’s gorgeous, not perfect. Julie never seems to have any trouble finding someone to bring home (yes, we have our “hookup lists” on the door of our closet—if you were wondering, she’s at 59, I’m at 64).
On one particularly late, drunk, and horny night, Julie and I were working a couple of guys hardcore. Things seemed to be going great: the handle of SoCo was disappearing, the lovely gentlemen were getting lovelier by the moment, and the cops had yet to stop the music. The remainder of the night became a blur—one those blurs where you’re pretty sure you’ll look back on what little of the night you remember and throw yourself a high five in bed the next morning. Yet somehow, Julie and I woke up the next morning unaccompanied by any male counterparts. Oh the shame!
How could it be? We had done everything by the book! We had danced for their attention, laughed at their awful jokes, and looked into their eyes convincing them that the Giants would pull it off and everything in the baseball world would be alright next season, all the while knowing our legs were going to ache in the morning from dancing, the jokes were going to be the same old crap from last weekend, and there’s NO way the Giants would ever pull off a successful season.
After the hangovers wore off, we decided to get to the bottom of the dilemma. And while getting high in the laundry room behind the duplex we call home, this is what we came up with…
The Theory of the Unlandable Guy.
You see him from across the room. The chemistry is there, the looks are there (at least with your beer goggles)… hell why not. You approach him. Conversation is friendly. Things even heat up a little but no fireworks yet. It’s getting late, time to leave. “Wanna come?” “Naw, I’m good. Thanks for a great night!” “Sure, my house is this wa… wait… what??” And before you know what has happened, he’s gone, vanished into a thick cloud of smoke that can only mean it’s Saturday night in Isla Vista.
But of course, it’s not your fault. And it’s a good thing you didn’t bring him home! Wanna know why?
HE’S YOUR SON!!!
The fact is, no man can resist a woman’s temptations (especially in Isla Vista, where the guys are hot, the girls are hotter, and everyone’s horny with no Jiminy Cricket to keep them on the straight and narrow). The only logical explanation for such refusal is that you’re related. Since the guy can’t be your brother (you already know what he looks like), and he’s definitely not your old man (thinking about that is just wrong) or your long lost cousin (‘cause honestly, if he were, that minor troubling and illegal fact wouldn’t stop him), the only relation left to consider is your son.
The way Julie and I see it is, he’s come back in time to see what kind of a person you were before the saggy boobs and mom jeans. What’s so outlandish about that? It is the 21st century and all. We went from throwing rocks, to flying planes, to sending emails… only thing left to do is time travel. You see, last night wasn’t an encounter with your Prince Charming, or some ghost of hookup past, it was just your pride and joy checking up on you, seeing if the nicknames and Facebook pictures were really true (yep, even your kid is going to stalk you on Facebook).
Ahhhh…. it all makes sense now, huh? Wondering why you were so attracted to him? Probably because you recognized the same blue eyes in him that you adore about yourself. Or maybe he has the same nose as you… that constant source of snooty pride. Why did the conversation go off without a hitch? Probably because you’ve been re-counting all the tidbits of wisdom you gathered during your college days to him since he was born, hoping he might be able to pick up on a little of your raw talent. It’s all so simple.
So next time you spot that gorgeous guy watching you so intently from across the room, be sure to check his driver’s license for a year of birth. And if he isn’t all that anxious to go home with you, let him go knowing you just met you son from the future. And with that, I gotta go pack another bowl. (If you’re my son and you’re reading this, don’t feel bad that you slipped up and gave away the secret of time travel to the past, it’s just that you have a really cool mommy who thinks deep when she and Auntie Julie get high.)