Girls Night aperitivo ended with a bang this week.
We went to Slowly--the hip, trendy spot for those into aperitivo-going.
We were all minding our own business and having great conversation when in walks a group of really cute guys.
Now, remember, we are in Italy.
Most men are short and don't really fit the categories of "cuteness" for American girls.
This group walks in and the cute boy quotient for my entire time in Italy has been exceeded about 10 fold.
They get seated at the table next to ours, more of them come, then our tables combine.
A very Italian thing to do, but the waiter comes to check on us.
We are slightly annoyed that our girls' night has been crashed, but we're dealing with it.
A few of the ultra cute boys have smiled at us and said hi, so we're in a forgiving mood.
We ask for the check and get ready to leave when the waiter says, "I can't believe you're leaving! I just seated the Florence soccer team next to you!"
What?!
All these cute boys play soccer?
I have been terribly decieved my whole life.
Tell me why we don't follow soccer in the US?
How did I miss the memo that they really all DO look like David Beckham?
A soccer ball shaped light bulb went on above my head.
Well, all the girls are getting up, but in my head I'm thinking,
"I can't just get up and leave and not say anything--its Fiorentina! I mean, for pete's sake, that really cute one smiled at me!"
Here's where I got ahead of myself.
I should have just left it at the winks and smiles level.
But no, I had to forge ahead.
The next dilemma.
What do I say?
Do I deliver my (unprepared) smooth line in Italian or English?
Will I sound super dumb speaking broken Italian?
Will he understand how clever/witty/brilliant I am if I say it in English?
As I lean in to say something...anything, all the girls get up to go.
Now I have to be funny and charming and I only have 5 seconds!
Under pressure, I said something idiotic like,"Wow there are a lot of you."
Cute soccer player responded with, "Yep. We're a big family."
Smile. Nod. Sweat.
He asks, "Where are you going?"
Here we go--this is good I'm thinking. My big moment!
Then, all that comes out of my mouth is:
"Home. We have language school in the morning."
I have no idea what came over me. I totally dorked out.
It's not like I would have gone anywhere with him, I mean, please, all I was looking for was a good story to tell people.
Like: Hey, guess what! I talked to a Fiorentina player and it was -- oh, I don't know--Normal.
We exited the place of coolness and debriefed in the parking lot.
This consisted of us standing around--just in case they came back out of course, hysterical laughing, and pondering the night's turn of events.
Why did we turn into a bunch of 7th graders in there?
How in the world did they get so many cute boys on one team?
Why don't we watch soccer?
Why do all your words disappear when you're in a cute boy coma?
Should we go back in?
etc.
I now feel Baby's pain.
Cute boy + no time to prepare=
"I carried a watermelon."
Right on, girl.
