Single Girl Dating Diaries: The Best Friend

By Ingrid on January 28th, 2010

Best-friend-lg
Well, I did it. That’s right! I’ve managed to insinuate my little way into the life of a man I’ve admired from afar, the bartender with the fluid hands and lovely quiet eyes. Sweet, sweet success! Such a thing is possible! How did I do it? Dear reader, I cannot reveal all my trade secrets, but please know, I can be quite charming.

Quickly: he does indeed play soccer, he can cook a wicked Italian meal, he reads (what!), and his ass looks damn good standing in the doorway of my fridge in the morning, as he ponders making me the world’s greatest frittata for breakfast. In short, I’ve bagged a demigod and I feel helpless, giddy and alive. The best three weeks of my life.

So good, what’s the problem? Well, we must get this thing from three weeks to infinity, right? I want the real deal — make it a relationship, and not just a passing fancy. But I am certainly aware of the inelegant desperation of some of my gender. You can’t come on too strong. You need to stay just the right amount of aloof, don’t be so quick with the texting, the emails, the tender endearments whispered in the ear at every turn. You don’t have to laugh so hard at his jokes, even if they make you giggle hours later. I even try to stay out of his bar/MY bar as much as I can, to the secret pleasure of my internal organs. I close my eyes and visualize the icy seductions of Glenn Close and John Malkovich in Dangerous Liasons. I imagine being a mystery behind the fluttering fan.

This is a courtship, after all, not a full court press. Ooh, a sports analogy!

But I’ve hit a roadblock, and it comes in the form of another female. That’s right, Bartender Boy has a best friend from back in his day. Way, way back. Back to high school. Through college. I saw her visage over and over again when I got the magical access to his Facebook, clicking through chummy wall comments and old scanned photos. I inquired about her as discretely and diplomatically as possible, as we do something casual together, taking a run around the reservoir.

“Oh sure, Allison’s had boyfriends. Been through a lot of shit together. She’s one of my best friends.”

He does say it easily, with no hint of repressed feelings. They are just friends. But man, does she hate me. We’ve had to hang out together only twice, the first time hardly counted as we were at a party, crammed into someone’s backyard. He introduced us and I asked her for a light, and, literally, she tried to act like she didn’t have one, as she coolly smoked her own lipstick-stained cigarette. I took a quick glance at her giant purse. I just knew she had three lighters in there, and a book of matches from a restaurant. She turned me down and then turned to the closest human and continued her conversation.

The second time I knew she didn’t like me was when my man went to the bathroom during a double date, and she said nothing to me. Pretty hard to not notice this considering at that point only three people were sitting at a tiny table together. She can’t make eye contact with me. She hasn’t asked me one question about myself.

She is out to sink my battleship.

Am I being paranoid? No! I promise! I don’t think Miss Allison expected me to last this long, a girl he met where he works, a rather distasteful notion to her, I guess. And girls are plain old territorial at times. Worst case scenario: if she harbors a lifetime of secret lust for him, here I come sailing into the picture — trying to sink HER battleship.

This went from a sports analogy to a military one. Love is war, and I’m determined to end this friendly insurgency.

But what should I do? How do I neutralize this threat?