So, as I reflect over my mishaps with a bottle of wine (as Denver man sleeps solo in my bed), I begin to question how my most serious relationships started. Normally under fairly abnormal circumstances.
The summer after my senior year, I go on a camping trip with small group. Tensions are high with the random mix of people and an overwhelming amount of testosterone. I am looking smoking hot in my camping clothes that resemble an 80's rock star. Pink tee, holes in my jeans, and hair that was dyed black with a hose in my backyard. You can imagine.
However, a fifth of vodka and four 12 packs later, everyone was having much more fun. Suddenly I don't have clothes and I'm on a trucking road with a man on top of me. Being only 18, I don't have a ton of smooth lines under my belt and decide the most romantic comment would be, "Do you want me to get pregnant?!?!" This luckily scared the guy enough to refrain (or bolt) and at some point, I assume, we stumbled back to the campsite. I wake up with my face smashed into the bottom of the tent with a back that looked like 10 kittens used it as a scratching post. And then we dated for 8 years. I'd like to think I've gotten smoother.