Cousin flew home from Texas with a friend, and both of them were celebrating their “twenty-oneth” birthdays,as they said. I’m so deep in Studylandia that I feel like I can’t breathe, so I decided to meet up with them in downtown WC for their first experience in the pomp and circumstance of our “bar scene.”
After yesterday’s post describing how I fell instantly in love with “Ben” at a teaching training seminar, a reader suggested that girls are silly in their behavior. We need to stop sending “signals” that we’ve been trained to used (i.e. hair twirling, look-then-look-away, laugh too loud and long, etc.) and get up, go over to the guy and introduce ourselves. Enough with the coquette looks from across the room. Guys can’t read our complex minds. He doesn’t need to come to me, I can go to him, according to Mr. Reader. Whose blog, btw, is called “Ask a Jerk.” Its pretty hilarious though. Laced with profanity and anatomical references, but probably a pretty accurate picture of the male mind.
But his advice goes against all the learning I have gleaned from highly successful books like “The Rules” and “Captivating” and every film Hollywood has ever produced. The Man wants to seek me out, all I have to do is be flirty and open to it, one of them will even climb a carousel and dangle from the edge until I agree to go out with him (Notebook).
So I went through the usual highs and lows of getting ready for a girls night out – texting my sister asking what she was wearing, throwing shirts and dresses and shoes around my room like a tornado in shades blue, pink, black lace and spanx. I pumped my anthem “Electric Feel” and drank wine and talked to my fish Ke$ha, and finally pulled myself together to meet at Stadium Pub, a wannabe dive where you must be watching sports and drinking beer. We go here because there are always tons of guys, and you’re guaranteed to see someone you know. And if you don’t actually want to talk to them, you can talk about them. But everyone there was watching rugby, and I don’t know how that game is scored, so we left for Mr. Lucky’s.
Mr. Lucky’s is also always crawling with guys. Is it the name of the bar? Does it sound like hope? It was here that I decided to try Mr. AskaJerk’s theory; find a hot guy, and just start talking to him. I was going to stop being the passive, “come hither” staring girl. I would make my OWN destiny! I was ready. I looked good, I felt good, this was going to be “the day we met.”
But I didn’t even get the chance to be bold, because I became the victim of another kind of guy. The guy who can’t read your signals to GO AWAY.
I was almost immediately assaulted by Exhibit A, who practically sat in my lap, tossing his own albino blonde hair. He was tall, painfully thin, and incredibly drunk. hoo-boy. I indulged him for a while, but kept making eye contact with his friends with the “why are you letting him embarrass himself?” look. I repeatedly turned to my girlfriends to give meaningful looks and heavy sighs, pretending I hadn’t been listening to him but inserting a “what?” every other sentence. (Guys – that is a HUGE sign). Girls are too nice to say “I’m not interested, try somewhere else.” We use body language. Unfortunately, he failed to read mine.
Finally he posed a question; “so here I am, totally hitting on you, but you don’t seem interested. What’s wrong with me?”
Now, this is tricky. Because my honest answers here:
- I think I weigh more than you, and I want to buy you food; you look so hungry and thin.
- I have a no-blonde policy.
- You’re hammered and I’m not.
- I’m saving myself for Brian Wilson and you’re not him.
And also to Travis, Marshall’s friend, who was schwasted and hitting on my friend Megan. I pretended that I knew him from college for five minutes and we hugged and talked about the good times we “had” together, before I was finally laughing too hard to keep it up.