Despite my anxiety about this date, I made it down to West
Hollywood, parked, and dragged my nervous ass out of my blue VW Beetle.
I was wearing a jean skirt (I lived in jean skirts that
summer), a black tank top, and my trademark fiery red hair. I tried to channel that fire as I walked down
the street toward the bar.
I waited out front for a few minutes until I spied her walking
toward me out of the corner of my eye.
The absolute first thing I remember feeling (aside from
anxious/nauseous/panicked) was RELIEF.
She was cuter than
her photos online. How often does that
We greeted each other awkwardly and headed in to the
bar. She ordered a sex on the
beach. I laughed and said I’d never had
one before. I ended up ordering one as
well. She bought our drinks. We grabbed a small table.
I honestly don’t remember much of what we talked about that
night. Mostly I just remember that I
NEVER. STOPPED. TALKING. I also tore my
napkin to shreds, which is a trademark nervous habit of mine. Napkins and straw
wrappers—none are safe when in front of an anxious Molly. They will end up in
piles of tiny little paper shreds on the table.
We both lost track of time that night. It must have been
almost 2 am when I finally left West Hollywood.
(Sometimes, I miss the days when I could stay out until the wee hours of
the morning and still get to work on time the next day—those days are long
That night, I posted this:
That's how Catch got her name. She's quite fond of it. She told me just the other day that she loves being my Catch. And she is–in every sense of the word.
The next day, I posted the following: