As another unsuccessful night at the bars draw to a close, I remain unconvinced that people really meet at them. At least not for more than a few hours.
Really, a night out is exhausting. You need to shower. And usually blow dry. Possibly moisturize. And you have to put something together that is cute, shows enough skin to keep people looking, but not enough that you freeze to death because, hello stupid girls at the club with halters and no coat, it’s Chicago. You have to wrestle with Spanx and boots and eyelash curlers and stupid things and that’s even before you get to the club.
You need to find a place, a good one, with good “prospects”. But really, what is a good “prospect”? Basically a guy with hair and a decent shirt who makes eye contact sometimes. That’s the definition of a prospect? In the light of day, that wouldn’t be enough. Ironically, the light of day is when I have on leggings and a hoodie, yet apparently I’m pickiest.
And then there are the girls. There are always girls that are hotter than you, better dancers than you, with shorter skirts than you. You have to compete with them, trying to dance even with the complex they give you.
They probably can’t string a sentence together, but it’s a club, who cares?
And if against all odds, you manage to start dancing with a guy, or talking to one, what are they really after? They’re there for the same reason you are. They objectify you, and you spent 2 hours looking good for their objectification.
You really can’t be mad at them when you aided and abetted them.
It’s times like these when I look at my couple friends nestled at home and think that they are missing out on a social ritual that I really wish I could.
There are the stupid token couple friends that we all have that met at a bar or a club that really ruin things for us. We think that if it worked for them, it can work for us.
Fuck those friends, they’re the exception. Be happy for them, but get over it.
When you end a night of bar hopping at a bar which is having its Salute to Country Night with a desperate soprano singing lead, you wonder if the 5 dollar beer in your hand is worth the stare down of the bearded man across the room. How bad would pizza and a movie have been?
What keeps us trying again and again when every night ends with “never again”?
Hope is the fucking zombie of emotion. It never goes away, no matter how many times it’s killed.
So we keep putting heels on. We keep spending our weekends crammed like sardines in pulsating clubs meeting less than stellar people.
Because who knows? Maybe this time it will be different.