Overheard in 2 different bars this past weekend:
I’ve never seen her git so druhnk so kweek
I’m Vice President of Quality Assurance at Company X.
No thanks (when offered a free drink).
Poor thang, losin’ her job and not having balloons for her birthday. It’s just a shame, is all. No wonder she drank so much.
Ahm a CHEVY GIRL!
We’re going on a cruise in 2 weeks!
Stairway to Freebird!
See if you can sort that list into Bar A and Bar B.
So, Biff’s band ‘played out’ twice this weekend, and the experiences couldn’t almost not have been more different. (HUH?) Bar 1 was NASCAR-y and pool table-y and video slot-machine-y (but has a great stage), Bud and Bud light on tappy, and smoke-filled; bar 2 was retro design-y, yuppy, nonsmoke-y, 12 beers on tappy. You’d think that Bar 1 would have been full to the gills with enthusiastic people out looking for a good time, and Bar 2 would have been cleared out by 9 as Mummy and Daddy made their Hummere’d way home, and you’d be partly right. Bar 2 did largely clear out as the dining crowd finished chewing, and bar 1 did have several folks out looking to whoop it up, but overall it was Bar 2 that won the crowd participation award, hands down.
The old adage, handed down as lore to me by an ancient bartender years ago, that therere’s nothing like full dance floor to get a band energized, is true. To the point that the lead guitarist got his very own stalker/admirer, a lovely lady who looked to be in her middle 30’s and who therefore should have known better than to KEEP APPROACHING him while he’s playing. Seriously – dancing up to him, hips a-swiveling, arms stretched out to let the batwings wobble in the warm breeze created by her heaving chest. Oh, lovely.
It’s weird to watch grown women flirt like that, weird to watch them gyrate their pelvi on the dance floor, weird to see the hunger in their eyes as the third drink takes hold and their fading hormones rush to fuller bloom, rendering them, for the moment, capable of delicious fantasies involving the lead singer or whoever strikes their fancy.
Just so you know, I do not dance in public, especially when I know the band, and here's why: I don’t want people to ID me as ‘that woman who thinks she’s all that.’ Awkward enough being the spousal unit of the sexiest guy in the band, but to go out front and center to dance? Nah, thanks. That’s way too much attention-whoring for this old girl. I’ll keep my insane terpsichorean skillz at home, where I can go all-out pretending to be Miss Janet Jackson busting many a smoove moove, without the added weight of jealous strangers’ scrutiny (because hoo boy, I can dance!) holding me down.
It’s hard to shimmy shoulders with a dozen people’s scorn heaped on them, is what I’m saying.
And no, I SHOULD NO GIVE A DAMN what other people think of me, for I am too old for that nonsense, but my pride is still as strong as it was when I was young and unsure of myself and totally unwilling to make a mistake for fear of someone, anyone, noticing. Those old uncomfortable feelings never really go away, and I realize now that I’ll never have the self-confidence it takes to put myself out there, preferring instead to shine my little light when I know it’s totally safe.
Not like the woman I met this weekend who slow-danced with a stranger. He walked up to her, asked, and off she went. Just.Like.That! If I were her, I would have sooner died, and if death was not an option you can be sure the instant I raised an arm to drape around his neck my pits would rebel and I’d hyperhidrose all over the place. No cool cucumber, me.
Did I mention the 2 big girls on the stripper pole?
That action made me wicked uncomfortable for many reasons, the first of which spring to mind that it seems….pathetic. At the very least, it’s against some of the most basic precepts of my emotional/interpersonal makeup (see above) to be so flagrant. Perhaps this is why I’ve heard, more than once, that I seem to be aloof or cold. Whatever, man. Just because I won’t show you my titties an hour after we meet doesn’t mean I’m cold, it means my decorum is on high alert. Plus which, if we’re not on a date it’s a fair chance that I won’t even let you TOUCH my boobies, so flashing them is pretty much not going to happen. Suffice it to say then that once I saw what was going on (no nakedness was involved, THANK GOD), my internal propriety tyrant shouted 'get the hell out of here' and thus I donned my coat and beat a hasty retreat to the car for 'a breath of fresh air.'
Yep – if I ain’t turning into MY Gramma, then I’m turning into SOMEONE’S. Now get off my lawn before I fetch my cane to beat you with.
I gotta go take my Geritol. Y’all have a fungus-free afternoon.