He’s Just Not That Into Your Endometriosis

The Silver Uterine Lining

I met Nicky the weekend before Christmas, roughly a month prior to the Great Uterine Meltdown of 2015.

A couple of girlfriends and I went to see a late afternoon performance of the Nutcracker and then headed to the restaurant across the street for dinner. There was a line just to get in the door, but one of my friends noticed a new spot had opened a block down the street, so we headed that way and grabbed a seat at the bar.

Still nursing a Philadelphia-sponsored hangover from my roommate’s 30th birthday celebration the night before, I couldn’t even think about ordering booze with dinner, and I assumed that was why our bartender seemed a bit standoffish.

“Deal with it” was my internal response to him.

But as my friends and I chatted, he caught my eye a couple of times and didn’t look particularly hostile. And when I went on a rant about how New Year’s Eve isn’t a “real” holiday, I caught him eavesdropping and snickering to himself at my jokes.

A week or two earlier, I had given one of my friends a hard time for not leaving her number at a restaurant where a server was clearly into her. There was nothing to lose, I had reasoned.