You want to have an enjoyable evening? Best enjoy your own company. Otherwise, you are paying for entertainment sure to disappoint.
I sat alone in a sports bar, watching the Super Bowl last night. I received my share of curious glances, but I’m comfortable on a corner with Coors Light, wings, football, and people to watch. Most friends go to house parties. I avoid those parties, because they are unhealthy–not to mention, mating opportunity sparse. Think about what goes on at house parties:
- You stand next to a buffet, which has been visited by dozens of germy fingers, and overdose on sweaty cheese.
- A gambling addict constantly bugs you to join the pool.
- Drunk friends tell you the same story you heard three times prior.
- If male, you need to clean up after you blow up the guest bathroom.
- People talk over the commercials–often the highlight of the evening.
This is why a sports bar is ideal. All was fine, until friends came as couples to put an end to my serenity. Couple #1 shows up, and something’s amiss. Man goes to restroom. Phil puts on therapist’s cap.
“What’s the matter, kitty catter?”
“Funny. He keeps asking me that.”
“I tell him ‘nothing.’”
“Yet, something is wrong, right?”
“He isn’t taking our relationship as seriously as I am.”
“So, the way to get him to take it seriously is to pout and tell him nothing is wrong.”
“Shh! Here he comes.”
I’m cruelly distracted from the game by their antics. He moves in. She backs off. He shrugs, and goes to bar. He drinks. She texts. He returns, and tries to recover. She resists. He persists. She relents. They’re happy now. He says something stupid. She backs off. He asks what’s wrong. Nothing. He gets another drink. I wish the power would go off in the bar.
Then, happy couple #2 arrives. Perhaps this will go better. They seem happy. Thank goodness. Touchdown, Baltimore. She calls him a “fuckface.” I like that word. I laugh. He plays victim. She apologizes. Server visits me. Yes, I need a stronger drink. He tries to hook me up with server. I know where this is heading. She can’t ignore the 22-year difference. She has a boyfriend. I have a swig. His girlfriend calls him a “fuckface” again for ignoring her. Funny again.
Finally, as both “happy” couples poke and stroke each other, I reach my boiling point.
“Hey, guys. Listen. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of my date not giving me any shit.”
I pay my tab, tip the lovely server well for putting up with the embarrassment of being shoved toward an elderly bar maven, and make haste in my shiny blue Volt. I assume the happy couples got along famously without the audience of one. Perhaps there’s an odd strategy at work: Annoy, tease, fight, and go home and take the anger out as aggressive “hate you, love you” sex. Meh. Sex is overrated. Nights like these, coffee with Bailey’s and a thick slice of peanut butter pie are fine orgasm replacements.