I don’t go out much but when I do I like to envision myself as that person that you look at and say to yourself “why aren’t I having that much fun?” Like, I want you to watch me twerk it and try to get equally as low. Usually I can manage to balance between twerking it like B and ironically giving my best Maya Rudolph angry dancing face.
And if you’re like most girls my age, you’re a sort-of-recent College graduate playing Sex in The City on the weekends while you make almost enough money to pay your student loans each month. But if you’re like me, you go out once a month to some place that can be construed as a “bar” to socialize with the other children and still can’t pay your student loans. Asking me to “go out” on the weekends is too often akin to a child being asked: “I was thinking we could go buy that third Ipad you’ve been wanting so badly but then I thought hey, why not take you to the dentist instead?”
Lately, however, I’ve been trying to make an effort to be more social, like, not just talk-to-my-friends-on-the-internets social.
My first brush with the harsh reality of why I don’t go out was when we decided to go into a random bar on sixth street. You guys, we were the oldest people there. Granted, we should’ve judged the place accordingly when we saw the beer pong tables set up at the front, but my competitive mind only sees games as opportunities to win at something. Then I saw them. Two blonde girls wearing the same high-waisted, tribal patterned, Harem pants with identical black tank-tops tucked in. And they were best friends (obviously). And then I thought of the dialogue between them before coming to this very bar:
“Why can’t you? They’re SO cute. I have like, basically the exact same pair,” says Thing Two, thinking to herself, I really wish I could wear mine out too.
“I just, like, don’t really know if I can pull them off, you know?” Thing One is surprised by her outburst of vulnerability, she never lets Thing Two see her insecurity, specifically because her life up to this point has been in competition with Thing Two.
“My mom always said the first step to pulling it off is putting it on.” Thing Two’s mom never said this. Thing Two’s mom would have told her not to wear the same exact pants as her best friend at the same time at the same place. “You know what?” Asks Thing Two. “Let’s BOTH wear them. Who cares? YOLO, RIGHT?”
“You’re right!” Thing One says as she pulls up her Urban Outfitters Harem pants, “We look HOT.” She thinks to herself, And at least mine aren’t from Forever Twenty-One.
At Barbarella, the dance club that introduced me to Austin, we ran into that girl who isn’t aware of her personal space or of how much her dancing looks like a chimpanzee’s mating dance. (Do chimps have mating dances? I always imagined they did in my head and I can’t look it up in fear of my hopes being dashed.) She’s cute in the way Zooey Deschanel would be if she wore the same clothes but was twenty-five pounds heavier and had blonde hair — just as long as she’s wearing that “steal” of a vintage dress she found at Goodwill that looks more like the dress you wore at your brother’s First Communion than a vintage find. She’s dancing like no one’s watching, literally. And this is coming from someone who spent most of the night looking like this:
Last but not least, there’s that group of guys that are all wearing the same brand of flip flops. They are either wearing polos or t-shirts with the name of the pool they used to lifeguard at written across the back. To state the obvious, they call each other “bro” in lieu of ever learning first or last names so their brain space can better be utilized memorizing the scores of all the sports games.
As I sit in the only available chair and wait for Anna, Rich and Chris to get scrumptious drunk food I can’t eat, Bro One approaches.
“You’re not eying my sub are you?” He had Ron Howard’s face in Happy Days mixed with some Matt Saracen from Friday Night’s Lights. I immediately willed him to disappear as I blinked. He wouldn’t, so I got up and joined friends in the pizza line. But as we all walked back over to a table, friends with pizza in hand, Ron/Matt reached out and placed his douchey little hand on the space between my right shoulder and breast. This is the worst pick up line ever, mainly because it’s like, sexual harassment. I immediately had flash backs of being drunk in high school at a St. Johns dance, getting into an almost fight with another girl as my boyfriend of the day tried to “hold me back.”
“Don’t touch me, creep,” I said, only to be heard by Big Bro, a six-foot-five mess of a man with sauce stains all over his lifeguarding tee from the meat-filled sub he was chaotically shoving down his un-shaven gullet.
“He didn’t touch you,” said Big Bro, apparently suited to chronically being on the wrong side of every argument.
“Tell your friend you touched me!” I demanded of Bro One, my integrity hanging in the balance. He instead took it as a public outcry for a public apology to which Big Bro pretended not to hear.
“Yeah, I’m like sorry, that was totally an accident,” said Bro One, his eyes lighting up as he discovers Anna for the first time. It would have to do.
I felt satisfied enough when Anna, meaning to give Bro One her old cell phone number, actually gave him her mom’s number. You guys wonder why I don’t go out more.