another day, another bar, and more drama

Hi Mom,

I have a story to tell you. Well, I have a story to tell you, and the other few hundred people who are reading this letter.

First things first - I have to apologize for my lack of eloquence. I think I had norovirus (aka the worst stomach flu) which started on Thursday evening. Mom, it was so bad. I will spare everyone the details, but I literally thought I was going to have to call the paramedics on myself at one point. And if I’m being completely honest - yesterday’s recovery was such a blur. I couldn’t remember anything. Any conversation I had, or any conversation I was having. It was like I completely blacked out for a solid, 24 hours.

Weirdly, once 3 PM hit today (Saturday) - it was like nothing had happened. Nausea - gone. Fever - gone. Chills - gone. I ordered chicken noodle soup with a side of mashed potatoes for dinner. I’m in bed with freshly washed sheets. I did a seaweed/collagen hydrogel face mask WITH a sample of my favourite serum -Odacité’s All-Embracing (one day I will splurge - but for now, we’ll just stick with the samples) followed by my new Ilia Moisturizer (I’m obsessed. Anything with Colloidal Oatmeal - my skin loves). So, we’re trying. I’m not rushing myself on healing - but it does feel good to be able to clean my space and do my skincare again.

So here’s what I really wish we were talking about. I wish we were having our regular teas with 2 tablespoons of honey and a splash of milk. If dad was here, you’d get him to make them for us - because, for some reason, he could always get the rations right on everything. But, alas, I will slowly sip on my water (my sister would be happy that I am not drinking caffeine post stomach flu, as much as I begged her to let me this morning), and pretend this is a Tetley Orange Pekoe tea.

And I will pretend you are here, right next to me.

Do you remember the MFB? The one who walked me home and kissed me in front of my apartment. Where my foot popped, just like in Princess Diaries. Mom - I didn’t even know that was a thing until it happened. I even told him he was a good kisser, and he told me, “Well - when you have chemistry with someone you just hope it translates over.”

Anyways, Mom. Here’s the crux of it all: he told everyone at the bar. And I knew, right when we exchanged IG’s, that our relationship was going to change. That my relationship with everyone at the bar was going to change, because now, just like in Rome, it feels like I have a giant sign on my forehead that says “I had a thing with XYZ”.

And here’s the thing, Mom. I’m not stupid. I knew he would tell maybe one or two of his friends who worked there. But they’re not my friends. So when other staff started to make comments to me, about him - that familiar feeling crept in. That there’s an unknown narrative that’s being spun and spun and spun around. The one you have no control over, the one that you didn’t want even being told in the first place.

It all felt…invasive. And maybe this is my karma for writing my newsletters. But, I don’t name any names. I even ASKED MFB if I could write about him. I keep everything as anonymous as possible. Because I do feel some sort of protectiveness over these men and my relationships with them.

But it’s never really about the men themselves, it’s about the conversations. It’s about the meaning and the lessons that come from each interaction, no matter how big or how small.

And maybe that’s the thing, Mom. I felt safe with him. Or at least, I thought I felt safe with him. And I’ve seen this story before. I’ve lived this story before. Of having my identity now being associated with a man who I hooked up with ONCE.

So we were forced to have a talk. A talk, that in a normal world, I wouldn’t think necessary to have after two hang-outs. But, when two staff members (who, AGAIN, I have never spoken to) made comments to me - I couldn’t not say anything.

I tell him that I don’t know what I want. And he tells me he “can’t commit to anyone right now.” Mom, I’m laughing. Because, I wasn’t even asking - oh my god, you guys, it’s all besides the point.

Here’s what I think, and here’s what I know. From being a woman. Men like to claim ownership, and claim their stake. And they do it in many different forms. It doesn’t necessarily have to be through a committed relationship - but it can be by (for example) telling their entire staff at their bar, so everyone will feel like “you are off limits.” It feels as though it’s for optics. And it’s very dehumanizing.

“I’m still down to enjoy summer - if that’s something you’re interested in.” He sends a message after.

“Totally down to be friends.” I reply back. Because in my head - whatever he’s implying - “enjoying summer” = casual, casual = friends.

Anyways, he has been extremely cold to me since that conversation went down. Which makes it all feel even worse. Especially when I am going out of my way to make things feel and seem normal, like how it was before. Because I too, am very well aware of the optics. And if you know me, you know I will not let a man intimidate me out of my own neighbourhood bar (re: all of the summer of 2023’s newsletters).

The other night, in an attempt to make things normal, or in an attempt to make myself feel normal - I take myself out, seat myself at the bar, ignore the stares and the “good luck” from the host. Good luck. I roll my eyes. What does that even mean?

MFB makes me a sangria. A server that I’ve chatted with a few times (super tall and super handsome fyi) comes over to say hi. MFB is aware that this server has DM’ed me once. He wasn’t the happiest about it, but, again, it’s really not that serious.

Maybe he heard from the grapevine that me and MFB weren’t a Whatever-He-Was-Telling-People anymore. So we start talking (btw - this is all while MFB is making my sangria lol), and he, coincidentally, tells me he lives in the same neighbourhood that I grew up in. He asks me what high school I went to, so I tell him.

He responds with, “That’s where all the good girls go - isn’t it?”

And because MFB is standing right there, I don’t really know how to respond to this. My mouth hangs open a little bit, but then I shrug and laugh with an, “I don’t know about that” - and I turn my back towards him and chug my sangria instead.

This is where the night started to get blurry. And Mom, can you blame me? It was 18 degrees and the start of patio season and this whole scenario was turning into a Mess with a capital M.

So I go downstairs, where another bartender is working. This bartender knows more of the story of me and MFB (I had to make like, two allies at this bar). He knows what I’ve told him, and told me that everyone knew that something was going on THAT EVENING when MFB kissed me in front of my apartment.

I actually now can’t stop laughing because - I can’t believe I’m saying this - but this next scene makes the nights in Rome look, dare I say, tame.

I’m telling this bartender about the latest interaction between me and the super tall and handsome server, and how it happened right in front of MFB. When all of the sudden, MFB comes down the stairs and drops my to-go box that I left upstairs in front of me. He tells this bartender to move my tab to this floor. LOL.

This bartender, who’s a little bit older, looks at me, dead in the eye. On a very, very, very, busy evening. And says, “Emily. You two need to talk outside of here.”

“He won’t speak to me.” I tell him.

“He probably thinks you want to be friends so you can date *the tall and handsome server*.”

I actually cannot believe this is happening. Where are these narratives coming from?

“Have you tried messaging him?”

“Yup. No response.”

“Coldness is still an emotion.” My friend says.

And the thing is - I ask myself why I felt the need to not have things be awkward. Mainly because I like this bar. I like the relationships I’ve made with a few of the people who work there. I like the space. I like how I write my newsletters in the corner. I like the wine, I like the pizza. I like how it’s my neighbourhood spot.

It’s community.

“Well. Maybe there’s your answer then.”

In this moment, I feel a sense of defeat. A sense of it’s always good until it’s not. A sense of - ugh. I knew it. I’m the one who’s sitting here - feeling some sort of shame and embarrassment. And I can’t pinpoint exactly why I feel shame. Why I feel embarrassed.

I keep repeating to myself: you did nothing wrong. But it’s the way someone else’s fragile ego can make you feel so insignificant.

Why do I have to pay for someone else’s insecurities?

Remember that quote from The Princess Diaries? “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

Well, Mom. There’s my answer I guess.

I did tell this bartender that I’m tired of feeling like a pawn.

And you know what he responded with?

“That’s being a woman, isn’t it?”