I was home for another long break from school. I was tired and cranky and sick of my mother breathing down my neck to do my laundry, clean up after the dog and “get my ass out of bed before 11am just once this week.”
In attempts to cheer me up, my brother and his wife invited me to join them that night at a bar event. It was a big Hanukkah party that would be full of all the Jews I hadn’t seen since my high school days. Considering I had lost about 30 pounds and some unfortunate bangs since then, I agreed to go. I wanted everyone to see how sexy and awesome I looked as a more mature college girl.
I put on the hottest outfit I could find (which was difficult considering I only brought pajamas home on this little break), straightened my hair, layered on the makeup and went. My brother picked me up and we spent the entire car ride discussing how awkward this night would be.
“We’re making a beeline for the bar as soon as we get there.” We all agreed.
I elbowed my way to the bar, giving fake happy kisses to every camp/youth group/high school “friend” I saw along the way. They all wanted to catch up (and tell me how great I looked!), but I had one thing in mind: vodka.
That is until I spotted, across the room, my camp crush. I met him when I was 14 and fell truly, madly, deeply in love with him. He was super tall, super hot and the object of every single girl’s affection. I won him over with my wit and class-clown mentality, but he never saw me as anything but a fat, unfortunately-banged friend. We lost touch the minute I went to college and I hadn’t seen him since.
But there he was. In a blazer and jeans, looking just as hot as always.
I didn’t think he’d remember me, so I stopped staring and leaned up against the bar to order. I needed a double.
As I was squirting the lime into my drink, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and there he was, giving me that heart-melting smile. Turns out, he did remember me. Also turns out that he liked the new mature college version of me, as he sat with me the entire night, hand on my thigh, begging me to go home with him.
Part of me (a very small part, mind you) didn’t want to give in to him. I mean, I had come with my brother! How was I going to explain that one? But the other, much larger part, couldn’t resist this boy. This was a moment of vindication! My high school crush! He wanted me! And his body was bangin’.
I decided to suck it up, tell my bro the truth and head home with my dreamboat.
It wasn’t until after I got in the car and we made out for awhile in the parking lot that he informed me he had moved to Windsor. As in Canada. As in a 35 minute drive and a border crossing. Yes, I was crossing international borders to get some booty. And then I would be walk of shaming (well, drive-of-shaming) it back into my country in the morning.
When we arrived at the border it was 2am. My boy started speaking to the agent in French [Swoon], before handing over his birth certificate. The agent took a moment to look it over and handed it back. Then she stuck a flashlight in my face and asked for my passport.
“Uh, I don’t have it with me.” I answered.
“Why not?” She asked.
“Uh, I wasn’t planning on coming to Canada tonight,” I replied, trying not to laugh.
“When are you leaving?” I looked at the boy – he was smiling.
“Tomorrow morning?” I answered. The agent paused, looking back and forth between the two of us.
“Oh,” she said knowingly. “I get it. Well, go ahead and have a good time.” She smiled. As we pulled away, she flashed her station lights on and off, a sign to the other guards, I presume, of an international booty call.
And I did have a good time. Twice, in fact.
And on my way out of town, I picked up some Ketel One at duty free.
Those Canadians aren’t so bad.
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