August 13, 2012
Spittin' on Fire
It’s so weird to be 43 years old and single again. I so never expected this, or wanted this. Yuck. Suddenly, even normal things seem confusing. Like getting dressed. I was dressing for a fun night out with another mutha the other night. I put on a cute new top. It had giant holes cut out of the shoulders. I loved it. My shoulders are thin and tan, the blouse was white and the fabric thin and drape-y. I had lucked out and found it 60% off, yet it was still ridiculously expensive. No problem convincing myself I deserved it. I decided I wanted to be a little casual, so I wore it with a pair of dressy shorts. Satin-y fabric, pretty grey color. I own not a single pair of flat shoes, so I wore it with a pair of cute, strappy wedges, way high. Like, hooker high. I don’t want to be a hooker. This is just what these dicks sell at the store. (See High Heeled Muses.) It was a great look. Until I remembered that I’m single. I looked in the mirror and suddenly had body dysmorphic syndrome…only in reverse. My regular, innocent reflection now said ‘crack ho’.
I went to the mutha and said, “I’m alarmed over my outfit. I think it says “I’m a desperate whore bag?”
She laughed and said, “You look fabulous. If you take that top off, I’m wearing it!”
I felt confused as to the panic....
“You look hot. What are you going to do? Dress frumpy?”
“Well, obviously not. But I don’t want a bunch of assholes gettin’ all over me," I say in jest.
“Then don’t leave the house,” is her answer. We laughed hysterically.
See, here is the thing. I would have easily and very comfortably worn that outfit on a date with Dave, or a date with any man. I wouldn’t have given it another thought. But going out with a girlfriend, the outfit becomes questionable. I ultimately decided that I didn’t really care what anyone thought; I’m me, this is how I dress, it’s hip, modern and sexy, so deal with it.
Inevitably, a bunch of guys did try to get all over us. I realize now this had nothing to do with what I wore. This happens no matter what you wear. I’m not bothered by this and I’m really not an asshole. I know this is to be expected when in a bar. Drinks are flowing, people are partying…and people are trying to meet people. A typical bar scene, I guess. Only I’m not really trying to meet anyone. Unless a Greek Adonis millionaire is present and he happens to also run a fabulous daycare, I’m out. Judge me. It’s just where I am right now.
About 30 minutes into general conversation involving nearby bar patrons, I leaned over to her and said, “Uhhh…el problemo, this dude’s going to give me major zits.” She snorted and laughed and asked me to explain. “He’s a spitty talker. It’s getting on me. I might throw up.” So we casually tried to move away. He followed us. I started thinking about the bacteria in his mouth, the spit actually landing on my face. Mild anxiety ensued. I was thinking of those scientific photos where they show what flies out of your mouth every time you sneeze and stuff. The mild anxiety turned to panic. We tried a few more ‘lose ‘em’ tactics to no avail. Finally, I was forced to resort to the tried and true madwoman original. I lit a cigarette. I don’t really smoke much anymore, but this tactic requires a weapon. When I’m being crowded and I can’t stand it a second longer, I will start waving that fire around like it’s a blow torch. A cigarette is a weapon in a crowded bar. For added emphasis, you can act a lot drunker than you really are. People back the fuck up. Period. They don’t want to have their clothes burned, or worse yet, be disfigured. They just think you are drunk and using your hands for emphasis. Many people do this anyway, so it’s actually rather sly. It works every time. Every single time.
The night went quick and I crawled into bed at 3 am. I remember when that used to be standard fare. But now, unless you have a ‘next day’ baby sitter, it causes you to be really sorry that you even made the effort. My kids ran wild the next day while I nursed my hangover in the penalty box, and then one of them got sick and threw up. It was actually a good excuse to stay in bed with him. When I got up I found that all 400,000 Legos were scattered across three rooms, and forts were made with every facking sheet and chair we own.
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