Last night, a friend of MBF's and mine--one of the two friends at whose engagement party we first started talking--spoke of our relationship. "You guys complement each other in interesting ways," he said. (I was in a different room at the time.
Later, when told about this conversation, I said, "What does that mean!? What kind of interesting!?" But after thinking back on the evening we'd spent together, MBF and me and some of our friends, the answer to my question was obvious.
First, before we went to the bar, while the group of us sat around our friends' new house and talked about what's been going on, MBF had to spend a considerable amount of time directing my removal of something from my teeth. There is always something in my teeth. I am always That Girl.
Later, at the bar, I was doing nothing but sitting perfectly still and drinking a beer. ONE beer that I had not finished. When the events that followed took place, I was in no way intoxicated. I was just Sarah.
Everyone around me was doing multiple tasks, which can perhaps understandably get complicated. Everyone around me was eating and drinking. And talking, too! The people eating were sharing different appetizers, passing them back and forth across the table -- all that movement and coordination! Whereas I was sitting perfectly still, save my own arm moving only to raise and set down my beer glass. And yet somehow I managed to knock my purse onto the floor, a knit purse with a fancy flap but no actual closure. It rolled like a plush softball, threatening to spill my wallet and chapstick onto the floor. It rolled under the table just out of my reach. I reached with my feet to try to push it back toward me, but it just flopped its flap and teetered back and forth without actually decreasing the distance between us. So I lowered myself down so that I could reach it with my arms, bending my head, too so that I could see under the table.
As my head lowered to a position about an inch above the table, something was not quite right. Something I could not exactly perceive, yet felt was amiss, yet I was resolute that I would remain in that position until my wayward purse would return.
"Sarah! Sarah!" cried MBF.
"What?" I asked, still reaching for the purse.
At first he could not speak, just laugh.
I continued my struggle to regain my purse.
"Sarah, you...you have...you just put your hair in blue cheese!"
It was true. When I bent down to retrieve my purse, I had stuck one side of my head directly into the cup of blue cheese sauce that had come with MBF's hot wings.
I snatched the handle of my purse, checked to make sure that it still contained everything I'd left the house with, and sat up. MBF was waiting with a napkin; when I had fully emerged from under the table, he removed the offending condiment.
So, last night I put my head in a container of blue cheese. If not for MBF, I would have walked around all night with blue cheese in my hair.
I think this explains our friend's reflection. We complement each other in interesting ways. Like blue cheese dressing and my hair, which despite being a fraction of the size in my masthead photograph since I got a pixie cut, is still big enough to get food in.