Day 51 of The 365 Day Experiment. Fusilli, You Screwy Bastard!

I’m taking a break from emoting in my normal writing style today.  I’m tipping my hat to my Italian heritage while thinking about the angst some of my younger guy friends are facing right now…warning:  helpful if you know your pasta shapes to appreciate this :)

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His cell rang at 1:02 in the morning. He couldn’t take it anymore. His college buddy was checking in again. At 29, Spaghetti was trying hard to be a responsible “adult,” but his old friend Fusilli just couldn’t move past the old days. Spaghetti understood his friend was a going through a rough break up, but he was a stand up guy now. He had a job, and a steady girlfriend. He was even thinking of proposing. Sure, his girl Meatball was a little on chunky side, but she was great. They teamed up well. But then Fusilli reentered his life.

He met up once with the guy after work a few weeks ago and the contact hadn’t stopped. What started as a basic reconnection was turning into a full fledged bad bromance. He was what Meatball called a “bad influence.” At yet, Spaghetti was drawn to Fusilli and his single guy ways, perhaps as a statement of what he felt like he was missing in his own life. His life with Meatball, while nourishing and full, was getting as stale as a piece of two day old foccacia.

In college, everyone liked to think they could party like Fusilli. The whole gang tried to keep up. Ditalini, Cavatappi, Pastina, even that fat ass Lasagne. Except for that pretentious Farfalle, with his obnoxious bow ties. Fusilli had been the life of the party, the one everyone could look to to bring energy and fun when everyone else was tame. And for the last few weeks, Spaghetti felt a renewed sense of freedom and fun. But then he realized, maybe he could have both. Maybe he could have his friends AND Meatball, and she could be part of that life too. And maybe the nights rolling in at 3 am drunk wasn’t as cool as he thought it was anymore. She brought some stability to the chaos.  He knew he was going to sound like a major buzz kill to Fusilli, but realized he had to grow up.

He answered at the phone. “Fusilli, you screwy bastard, stop calling my house at 1 am!” he screamed. He looked over to see if he’d woken Meatball. He’d noticed she hadn’t even stirred. UGH…she was snoring. So not hot. “Where are you?” he asked. He looked at his clock. Bars were open for another 58 minutes. He could be there in 7. He slipped like butter from under the comforter, and slithered into the saucy clothes he had tossed in a pile just an hour earlier. He decided maybe he wasn’t ready to be boxed in just yet.