Brewery Bar, go to hell!

I woke up this morning with some sore guts.

When Eli suggested that's where we meet for dinner last night, I should have listened to my instincts and found an alternative rendezvous spot. Instead, I followed his lead and headed to the Brewery Bar for the most gut wrenching Tex-Mex this side of a Mazatlan water faucet. He was ultimately persuaded by $1 Margarita Monday. I arrived a few minutes late to find a table of 4 already seated to a chips, salsa, and glasses rimmed with salt. A millisecond scene survey announced that I'd be playing fifth wheel while destroying my insides. Great.

A quick bit of background...
Eli is a good friend from WAY back. I mean 'kindergarten' way back. 'T-ball' way back. 'Pre-pubescent, neon clothes, AIDS-ain't-even-on-the-radar, email-yet-to-be-invented' way back. You get the idea. He's getting married to his longtime girlfriend this summer, and I'm the best man. They just bought a house down on the south side of town, near my office. Oddly, we don't see each other that often despite the proximity, probably because I try to spend as little time down there as possible. But last night saw me at the office working late, and I was able to sneak out and meet everyone for dinner.

Eli and Bri's pending wedding led to a natural theme in the conversation. This was augmented by the presence of the other couple, married for two years. The planning and processing of Eli and Bri's rehearsal dinner, hotel arrangements, parties and guest lists wasn't in and of itself a negative. It just made me realize that Eli and I were in VERY different stages of our lives. I love my girlfriend, but am terrified of the traditional choices Eli seems to be making. I don't want to spend 70% of my day in a cube. I don't want to have a mortgage. I don't want to own a treadmill. When the inevitable cake disaster story came out of the other couple, I buried my head in my menu and swore to myself that I'd die before I ever reached the point in life where I would require the services of a wedding planner.

Bri, a total sweetheart, could tell that I wasn't much for the wedding conversation. She put an end to it in an authoritative manner befitting a woman who would eventually run a house. We were free to slurp our food in relative peace. At least until our bellies churned in painful digestion. I unearthed the Combination #8, a taco plate I hoped would be somewhat gentle as it masqueraded as "health Mex." False. Our dinners arrived under individual mountain ranges of shredded cheese, and smothered in a boiling lard masquerading as green chile.

As plates were being cleared, the waiter told us about the Dessert Nachos. Given that I was already catatonic, a pile of sopapillas, ice cream, high fructose corn syrup and diabetes seemed like a bad idea. We paid the bill instead, and said our goodbyes before exiting to a pouring rain. I walked out to the car, and headed back to the office, happy to be working quietly. Eli and I are good friends, and share plenty of history, but right now we have two very different lives. I spent one night working late and consider it Blog worthy. He's a normal, everyday, American adult.