Good Luck and Don’t F*ck It Up

Don't mess up

I don’t have an RBF. For those not in the know, RBF stands for Resting Bitch Face. I’ve been told this on multiple occasions. I’m open, I’m inviting. People talk to me, people talk at me. I engage in most conversations as I’m usually curious and give everyone the benefit of the doubt that they’ll be interesting, hopefully funny and that they might have something to offer me in life (at least, I do now … I wasn’t always as open or engaging).

So, when I’m out and about in the world I tend to talk to a lot of people. Some conversations are great and I get to learn about someone new, and learn a bit about myself in the process. Some great connections and friendships have emerged from my lack of an RBF, and I’m grateful for it.

Of course, there’s a downside to it as well as I seem unable to avoid the creeps and oddballs slurring derogatory comments and snide remarks thinking it’ll get me to drop my panties and head home with them… Guys, take a hint: That shit doesn’t work. Seriously.

Last night I went out for drinks with a few girlfriends. They chose a local wine bar lounge, and I showed up later in the evening. The place was packed, so we were squeezed in beside another table already occupied by two men and a woman. As we were already four and wanted to add two more, we were eyeing the table beside us in the hopes that they would leave. To clinch the deal, I said I’d ask the gentleman closest to me if we could steal their extra table in the meantime. I have no issues approaching strangers.

Upon asking the Random Stranger if we could steal his table, he smiled and said of course or we could join all our tables together and hang out. Of course, the latter happened.

As I was seated next to the Random Stranger I originally questioned about the table, we started chatting.

I wasn’t always open about myself, hell, I wasn’t ever really myself at all until recently. However, now, I’m an open book. I’ll tell you how I feel, what I’m thinking, and if you ask me a legitimate question I will give you a straight, true answer. So, Random Stranger and I start chatting.

He immediately spots my wrist where I’ve got Owen’s name tattooed. This is often the start of bar conversations. Men gravitate towards easy targets and topics of conversation like tattoos (plus, I’m fairly certain they want to ensure “Owen” isn’t my partner’s name).

I explain the significance and his eyebrows go up (as men’s usually do when I say I have a child). I openly discuss his age and what a good (most of the time) kid he is. And his next question is: Where is he tonight? And at first, I was a bit weirded out by the question, then I realized it was a clever way of asking if I was a single mother or not. My response: “He’s at home with his father, my ex.”

Look of relief on Random Stranger’s face.

“So, you’re single then?”

A smile, a laugh.

“Um, no, I’m not married, but I’m not single.”

From there the conversation circled around what I do for a living, which inevitably lead to talk about cars. And when Random Stranger and his group eventually got up to leave and he said goodbye to me, he leant over and said:

“You look really happy. Good luck with the new guy, and don’t fuck it up.”

As he said it, I laughed and jokingly said I’m trying not to. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? But inside somewhere a part of me was inhaling sharply with a look of panic and worry.

Don’t fuck it up, Miranda.


I’m bound to fuck it up.

It’s what I do.

How did this Random Stranger tap into that? I know it’s just a turn of phrase like “break a leg” or “everything happens for a reason,” but it hit too close to home for me not to think about it a bit more after the fact. Here’s someone I’ve known for barely a few hours and he’s already made an observation about my demeanor and commented on my life. Perhaps it says more about him than me, but I was still thrown off a bit by it all.

Don’t fuck it up.

I don’t want to. I desperately want to make it work or rather to continue to make it work. However, I’m fumbling along in this whole relationship thing like a blind cat trying to scrounge food in an alley, while simultaneously trying not to get hit by oncoming traffic. I have no idea what I’m doing. At all. I’m just trying to keep it all alive and well and on track.

No, trying is the wrong word. That makes it sound like work. What I’m experiencing now is not work, not at all. But it is something I have to work on internally.

I announced early on that I had no idea how to be a girlfriend. He seemed OK with that, and I was open and honest enough to reveal that I really had no idea (and still don’t, really) what I was doing.

I’m comfortable. I’m happy. I’m myself. I feel appreciated and cared for. And all of that makes me wonder when it will eventually all go wrong. Because how is it that I’ve come to deserve all that good? All that happiness? Am I bound to fuck it up in a self-sabotage kind of way?

Random Stranger hit a nerve, a nerve I’ve been nursing and covering for the better part of a few months now.

“Good luck and don’t fuck it up.”

I seriously need to work on my Resting Bitch Face, and pronto.

~ by drivingmsmiranda on November 8, 2015.

2 Responses to “Good Luck and Don’t F*ck It Up”

  1. What an odd comment to make at a bar to someone you were hitting on.

  2. […] it on purpose? Did you make it worse to make it all easier in the end? Did you fuck it up because you were told not to? Why don’t you have these […]

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