"Did you just alternate rows between knit and purl?"

Several years ago, I said an awkward thing that worked out great.

I was at a party in college just, like, dominating the meningitis-pong table, when I noticed a girl with dark hair and a unique fashion sense somewhere across the apartment.

I don't believe in types, but I do believe in statistics, and I will say this: based on the available empirical evidence, if you're a girl with "dark hair" and "a unique fashion sense," you can reject the null hypothesis with a pretty high confidence level, because I have a crush on you.

This girl was no anomaly. Before long I was talking to her about literature and movies, and as has happened just way too many times, she was blowing my mind. Alcohol makes me affectionate, and I was quite amorously sloshed that night. So it should come as no surprise that I asked for her number, and it should be only a minor messianic miracle that she gave it to me.

Then she went to get her coat so she could go home.

Now, we need to pause a moment and have a little chat about how much of a badass I am. Here's an example: in a baseball game when I was 13, I broke a catcher's hip stealing home plate in the championship game. They had to bring an ambulance out on the infield to take him away. Here's another: two paragraphs down, I'm going to split an infinitive, right in the face. I mention these things only to point out that, in case you were wondering, I'm hard like the streets of Compton.

Okay. Glad we settled that. Also, here's a fact: I know how to knit.

It's true. I have two colors of yarn and two sizes of needles in my apartment right now. I used to make scarves in college to give to homeless people. Well, I made one. The rest of the time I just made squares. Lots of squares.

Maybe you think that makes me soft, and not like the streets of Compton at all. Usually people laugh when they learn that I knit, and when they do, I don't waste time talking about being able to, with my time and energy and creativity, give (in the face!) actual physical insulated warmth to another person. Instead, I stop dicking around with grammar and tell them the end of this story.

When we last left our brunette hipster heroine, she was retreating into a bedroom to find her coat so she could go home, and she still was unaware of both my knitting ability and my callous indifference to the plight of infinitives. She came back to say good night, and I thought to myself: I've seen a scarf like that before.

In fact, I knitted one just like it. It's a really simple pattern, and it always tends to curl up lengthwise, so it's easy to recognize. Now I'm curious - did she do it herself? Because that's pretty cool.

So, as we're standing in the doorway to the apartment, her about to leave, me waiting for some friends to wrap up their own little drunken interactions, I ask,

"Did you knit that scarf yourself?"

She looks at me cutely. "Yeah, actually, I did."

"What, did you just alternate rows between knit and purl? I made one like that, too, once."

I kind of half-felt her heart skip a beat. I was looking directly at her scarf, though, so I didn't notice when, after the brief moment it took her to defibrillate, she put her hand behind my neck. The noticing started immediately thereafter when she pulled my head down, kissed me hard, then vanished out of the apartment building in a clatter of clunky shoes on wooden stairs.

"That guy who was hitting on you, how was he?"

Up until now, all of the stories I've told in this blog have been depressing tales of misery and woe, where awkward failure has inevitably brought a quick and hilarious end to any asking- or making-out that I had been trying to accomplish.

Recently, though, a conversation I was having with a girl in a bar rose from the ashes of awkwardness like an adolescent phoenix to end up being kind of cool.

I was at a bar with a few friends, who themselves had a couple of girls with them who were their friends. We were introduced briefly, and I think one of my friends wanted me to hit on one of the girls, but I really wasn't paying much attention to them.

Before long, two guys came over to talk to the girls whose names I had already forgotten. I was on the other side of a table in a crowded bar, so I couldn't hear anything.

Now, I'm instantely fascinated by what is happening. What are these guys saying? Are they failing horribly, or is it going kind of well for them? Judging by the body language, I think it's going well for one of the guys and the girl he is talking to. What is the girl saying back? The guy seems like he's hanging in there for quite a long time. Oh, look, the guys are consulting with each other - well, dude who was doing well, you need to ask for her number now! There he goes - the cell phone's coming out. Oh, awesome. Great job, buddy. Good work.

But then I'm thinking: I kind of want to know what he said to her and how she felt about it. I've never hit on a girl before when I wasn't there, so how would I know what other people do? But here's a girl who I've been introduced to, but who I barely know. She would have no reason to not be totally honest. What's stopping me from asking her about it?

Other than decency, common sense, and the trappings of thousands of years of human civilization, nothing.

So I walk up to this girl and I ask her,

"How did that go? That guy who was hitting on you, how was he? What made you decide to give your number to him?"

"What?"

"The guy you gave your phone number to. What was it like when he hit on you?"

"Oh, well, it was really flattering."

"Well but see, the thing is, I'm awful at talking to girls I don't know. I always say some terribly awkward thing that my friends think is incredibly hilarious when I go back and tell them. So I just saw that guy hit on you, and he looked like he did a good job, so I was just curious about how it went, what kind of stuff he said, that kind of thing."

What you have to believe is that I was totally honest about this stuff as I was saying it. The entire reason I was talking to her is because I thought she had something interesting to say about getting hit on by a guy, but that's it. I mean, sure I thought she was cute, but I think everyone is the cutest girl I've ever seen. I was interested in facts.

But before long, we were deep in conversation about what it is and isn't good to say when you meet a girl, what kinds of things we wanted in relationships, and how tough it was to find those things, sometimes. And as I looked at her while she talked, it was as though her eyes had softened somewhat into the sort of liquid empathy that absolutely slays me when I see it in a girl's eyes. Then I started thinking how incredibly sweet she was to actually take me seriously and legitimately want to help me hit on girls, which she seemed honestly to do.

I guess I decided that I liked her a little.

So, after maybe 20 minutes of chatting about, you know, emotions, and after a natural break in the conversation, I said, "Listen, I didn't come over here to hit on you at all, but can I call you sometime? Would you think it would be fun to go out with me?"

And, after a nerve-wracking few minutes when I spelled her unimaginably common name horribly wrong into my phone (I need to practice putting new names my phone, because, seriously), I had her phone number. Obviously I'm not the only one, but hey - even if we never go out, she thinks guys who ask for her number are flattering, and I think girls who want to help me out are sweet. That's a more than fair exchange.

The most awkward kiss I ever had

"I don't want to make out with you, Justin."

Yeah, I think I can accommodate that request. "Uh, okay," is probably all I managed to say, but I was a little confused. Because seriously, it's as though she had just told me that she intended never to levitate. She was cute, smart, fun, interesting, and everything you could want in a person to make out with. Even so, I pretty much decided I would not kiss this girl ever since the uncomfortable, awkward maybe-date we had gone on to see My Big Fat Greek Wedding a year before, when I showed up with shaving cream still behind one ear. Plus, I still don't think she thought it was a date. It definitely wasn't a date.

But that was in, like, 2002. By the fall of 2003, we had been good friends for a long time. She lent me books, and I helped move her out of her dorm room while I was still high on a whole six-pack of cherry coke, after pulling an all-nighter to finish a take-home exam. We were medium-close.

But it was the fall of 2003 when she, suddenly, out of nowhere, decided to set boundaries. Up until that moment, you could say that I expected to not make out with my friend every time I had ever seen her, and that I had never been disappointed.

At least, I hadn't yet. Not until the very next night.

---

In retrospect, I should have figured out what was happening. But, generally, when people tell me not to make out with them, I follow orders.

So I expected nothing out of the ordinary the next evening when she made a few odd comments while we were drinking with friends, and I didn't really notice her nearness when we were standing, later, and talking, holding more drinks. I didn't even think it was that odd that she tipsily invited me to her room to watch a movie, even though that had never happened before, because we always watched movies downstairs.

Here's what should have given it away: the wrestling, on her bed, with her bedroom door closed and the forgotten flicker of some instantly-ignored movie lighting our faces with a blue kind of glow. Which, I swear to you, wasn't my idea. If you think I could have pulled that off on my own, well, the archives are right over there on the right hand side-bar of the webpage. I was fuzzily thinking at the time: gee, she sure is cute, and this wrestling sure is fun. Too bad she told me she didn't want to make out with me. Oh well.

It didn't really click into place until she paused, blearily, and, breathing heavily, smelling of alcohol, face inches from mine, said, "You have no idea that I want you to kiss me, do you. That's why you lose."

Oh.

Well, listen, I thought, clearly up until now I wasn't fully on board with this ultra-subtle reverse-psychology Jane Austen ninja-romance shit, but now that we are all firmly on the same page, we can begin to head in an extremely positive direction.

So I kissed her. For about two milliseconds. And after those two milliseconds, we were just friends again, right after she whispered, reluctantly, six of the last words you want to hear right after you kiss someone for the first time.

"I'm going to go throw up."

"Are you ticklish?"

For the first time (that I know of), I've decided to write about an awkward thing I said to a girl who reads this blog. I was pretty nervous about how she'd take it, and plus this is probably the most embarrassing thing I've ever posted, so I called her to talk to her first.

I bet you'd like to listen in, wouldn't you? Fine, twist my arm. Here's what I remember of the interesting part.

"Listen, a few weeks ago when I visited you and stayed at your dorm . . ."

Timeout. Yes, I said dorm. But she's a senior. That's all I'm going to say about that. Okay, time in.

". . . I did something awkward that I want to write about on my blog."

"What?" I think that's what she said. She might as well have said, "Which one?"

"Well, the thing was, I thought you were adorable and cute, and I wanted to increase the amount of physical contact that was happening, so, that's why I tickled you, and I think it's funny, so I'm going to write about it if that's okay with you."

Seriously. I'm 25 (and a half) years old. I work in middle management for a Fortune 200 company. I like football and beer, and over the summer I grew an outstanding beard, if I do say so myself. I know that tickling is a super amateur move once you are out of, oh, kindergarten.

But three weeks ago, there I was, getting ready to go to sleep on the floor of this girl's dorm room. I think it was the second night I spent there. I thought about how cute she was, and how nice of a girl she was, and how I wanted to flirt with her more, and before I could think about it I reached over, (very rudely, you could say) poked her in the side, and asked:

"Are you ticklish?"

"I'm legitimate."

"Which one of these is maroon?" Why the hell do I always play on maroon sports teams? Is it some kind of crazy masochism or a horrible cosmic joke? I swear, I've played on them since elementary school soccer. I love Virginia Tech football. And I've never been able to distinguish maroon from green.

"This one is. Wait, why are you asking?"

Because I want to make sure my bionic eye is working right. "Because I'm colorblind."

"Yeah, but, why is it so important that you have maroon striped socks?" Oh, right. I guess my visibly poor grasp of fashion as a concept, combined with my already established fundamental ineptitude with respect to color matching or management, make that the more important question to be asking.

It's several months ago. I am in American Apparel in Carytown, which, inside my mind, I like to think of as "Hipster Hooters." There are two incredibly pretty (and relentlessly trendy looking) girls working there, which seems to happen every time I walk into that store.

I'm there for maroon striped socks, and also because I have a friend (a guy) who works there. The socks are supposed to match the maroon uniform I wear to play a ridiculously elementary-school type sport, which practically begs to be accompanied with striped socks. I also kind of want to say hi to that guy, because he's cool.

But my biggest problem, once I'm holding a pair of socks in each hand, is identifying maroon. For all I know, I'm holding dark green and normal brown socks in my hands. So I go up to the cutest retail sales clerk I've ever seen and ask for a second opinion.

And, you know, in the course of learning about colors as though I were in pre-school, I actually had a very nice, pleasant conversation with this girl. It wasn't awkward at all, once we got it all straight that I was actually genetically handicapped when it comes to maroon, and not just screwing around. There was no awkwardness that I could detect.

Yet.

But then I remember: is my friend working today? I ask, but it turns out that he isn't. Oh well.

So all of a sudden I'm thinking to myself that you just don't have very nice, pleasant conversations with the cutest retail sales clerk you've ever seen every day. No, sir. I have to say something. What do I say? Something, fast! Wait, she knows my friend, right?

"Thanks for helping me. And, hey, you should ask my friend about me sometime. He'll tell you I'm legitimate."

Does that even mean anything? Is that English? What am I trying to accomplish? Look, why don't you ask my friend about me - he'll verify that I am not a figment of your imagination. The girl laughs and walks away to go be cute and trendy somewhere else. Well, fortunately no one else heard me be ridiculous.

Oh, wait. I forgot about the other cutest retail sales clerk I've ever seen. When I turn to the register, C.R.S.C. 2 rolls her eyes and says, "Okay, legitimate guy. I'll ring you up."