The club, Club Safari, became MY everything. It was where I would go if I was in a good mood, to celebrate birthdays, New Year’s Eve, bachlorette parties, divorce parties. It was where I would go if I was in a shitty mood and wanting to escape into a sea of people and alcohol. It was where I would go, looking my best, dressed to the nines to flaunt myself in front of the latest guy I had been seeing that didn’t work out. It was my steady guaranteed Friday night date. I could go with M or all by myself and either was just fine by me. I discovered my love of Bacardi there. I became the quintessential party girl. I immersed myself in that lifestyle. No drugs though, just drinking and club hopping. I was waved past lines, velvet ropes opened up for me all over. I was that girl. I met my third husband at the same club. I saw him across the floor. He was GORGEOUS. Breathtaking really. He could dance, he was dressed casual. I thought he was on spring break, it was March. I watched him all night, never got up the courage to talk to him. He didn’t show back up for months. The second time I saw him, I was just as attracted and just as shy. Shy was something that I had abandoned, except with him. I simply could not bring myself to go talk to him. M did the dirty work. She walked over to him and introduced herself, asked his name and walked back over to me. Sure he’ll meet you, he say’s go talk to him. I was mortified. I wanted to leave. Surely this beautiful man doesn’t want anything to do with ME. M dragged me over to him and I will never forget this exchange as long as I live. He looks at me through these thick dark lashes, extends his hand and in the sexiest accent introduces himself as Giovanni. I shake his hand and say in my most annoyed sarcastic voice “Oh my God!, Of course that would be your name” and walk away as fast as I can.