There's a reason my mother once told me never to trust men in bars. "Their intentions are never good," she always says. "And plus, wouldn't you rather meet someone cultured -- perhaps at the symphony or the opera?" (Apparently even she thinks I'm beyond all hope of finding someone straight.) But after my night out on the town last night, I, too, am convinced that I'd have better luck finding Mr. Right in the dressing room of the San Francisco Ballet's Sleeping Beauty.
Since I'm always the straggler (I had no choice but to wait for my nail polish to dry), I was forced to wait in a line to meet my friends inside a loud, crowded bar last night. This, however, was not just any line -- it looked like a line for Space Mountain at Disneyland or opening night of Harry Potter, the kind of line that makes you want to rip your eyeballs out because it seems unlikely that you'll ever make it to the front. In my experience, I've come to discover that lines like these are prime targets for stalkers. After all, even if they know nothing else, the one thing they do know is that you're obviously not going anywhere. I wasn't even in line for three minutes before some guy popped out of nowhere and asked me to come to a club with him. I politely said no and suggested that he'd have better luck asking the girl behind me with the spray-on t-shirt-dress and the 7-inch stilettos (which was quite the outfit, considering it was 25 degrees and snowing). After a five-minute reprieve from the craziness, a sleazy version of Mr. Jesse from "Full House" appeared and offered to take me to the front of the line if I wanted to "come to the back room" with him. "Don't worry," he told me. "It'd just be the two of us." Ohhh, enticing. NOT. He continued to ask -- beg -- me to come with him, until I finally just started talking to my friend on my cell phone. (Thank God for instantaneous communication and friends with sixth senses.) He finally disappeared into the throng of male freaks, leaving me alone -- happily alone -- in an interminable line that would only lead me to a whole new world of blog specimens.
Within five minutes of meeting my friends, some guy tapped on my shoulder. "Yo, my friend thinks you're hot," he said. (Now that's charm if I've ever seen it.) I politely smiled, thanked him and proceeded to discuss the important topics of the day (i.e. if anyone had seen the latest episode of Sixteen and Pregnant) with my friends. My friend Samantha, who is undoubtedly the kindest and most lovable human being on this planet, felt bad for this guy's friend and told him not to be embarrassed. So for the next five minutes, I proceeded to converse with someone I'm not even sure graduated from elementary school. "Dude, sorry for that. Me and him isn't that well of friends, but he's was right - you're pretty hot." Call me crazy (and it's true, I am), but if there's one thing in the world that could rule out a prospective beau for me, it's bad grammar. And this guy took the cake. "I ain't living that far from here, but I had went to school with these guys so we's knew each other pretty good." (AHHH, IS ANYONE ELSE CRINGING?!) "It sucks, though; I don't really make it out this way no more. What about you? You live around these parts?" My immediate reaction was to inform him that a non-English speaking first grader could formulate better sentences than he could, but I refrained from doing so because I figured he probably wouldn't understand anyway. I tactfully made my exit, danced crazily to Madonna's "Like a Prayer" (because God knows I need one) and tuned out the bar men for a few wonderful and glorious minutes. Until another one approached. He made one of those awkward introductions -- the kind that involves absolutely no tact or suaveness whatsoever -- you know, when you completely inject yourself into another person's conversation without any attempt to find an opportune moment to interrupt. "HI, I'M PAT," he shouted over the loudness of Miley's "Party in the USA." I proceeded to say my name four times before he finally heard me. He told me that he saw my hair from afar and was compelled to touch it (who was he, George from Of Mice and Men?). I thanked him for the compliment -- however weird it may have been -- and kindly declined his offer to dance to the next song while caressing my afro-like locks. This didn't stop him. He returned with a sense of reinvigorated audacity only minutes later, at which point I was reminded of exactly why I'll be alone forever.
And just when I thought it was over, some enormous Chris Farley look-alike ascended the staircase toward the bar, jumped over my friends (literally), wrapped me in his arms and, without any warning, kissed me on the lips for the next thirty painful seconds of my life. I truly had no idea what was going on. Despite my effort to untangle myself from this giant lunatic, I was unable to make even the slightest dent in escaping his ever-so-tight grip (maybe I should invest in self defense classes?). It was unlike anything I've ever seen before -- a rare collision of awkwardness and audacity and sheer and total lunacy all at once. When he finally detached his lips from mine, he looked at me and said, "I've been wanting to do that all night." Well, what about an introduction? A conversation, perhaps? Who just goes in for the kill like that!?! And as my friends laughed hysterically at the insanity that is my life, I couldn't help but envision my future: me, golden retrievers, On Demand chick flicks, restaurant tables for one and enough pizza delivery coupons to keep me happy and fat forever.
And although I never thought I'd say this, men in tights are starting to look awfully promising right about now.
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