She smiles at our introduction, shaking my hand politely. Lost on Logan, however, is how she sizes me up—a girl notices these things—and I must admit, I am sizing her up too. Natalie is a petite blond, with a short bob haircut—something that I could never pull off. She has large blue eyes and faint eyebrows that are accentuated with a dusting of makeup. My 5’ 6” frame hovers over her as I shake her hand.
“It was nice meeting you,” I say in my best attempt to sound sincere.
“You too,” she replies as she walks out the door with Logan. Logan doesn’t say anything more about celebrating; in fact, he doesn’t say anything. He just nods to signal goodbye while Natalie takes his hand in hers.
...
11
The Last Straw
A fight broke out at Dado’s, a family-owned delicatessen, where plastic straws are no longer available to customers. The new straw policy of this Michigan eatery made one customer very unhappy. Julian Fernando, after being offered a metal straw, threw the straw across the deli, inadvertently hitting another customer in the face with it. Max Ingles, who was hit with the straw, lunged himself onto Fernando in retaliation. Ingles and Fernando then proceeded to fight, knocking over tables and breaking dishes. Both men were arrested for assault. Dado’s has since changed their straw policy again and no longer offers straws of any type.
“DO ME A FAVOR, FORGET about him,” Kaitlyn says to me in her best attempt of cheering me up. “We’re going out tonight—I don’t care about your recent boycott of bars. We are going dancing.”
“I won’t be any fun and you know it.”
“Not with that attitude. Look, you can’t mope around all day. Don’t let one stupid guy make you feel bad. It’s his loss.”
Seeing Logan with Natalie put me in a foul mood, which doesn’t sit well with Kaitlyn who insists that we go out. The thought of being social, flirting, dancing, and putting on a happy face seems too exhausting. Fighting Kaitlyn’s incessant pleading is equally tiring. Needless to say, she finally wears me down and persuades me to join her. Only, I immediately regret this decision the moment I step inside the club Kaitlyn picks out.
Techno music fills the place. The thump-thump of the bass music absent of any lyrics or singing makes my 27-year-old-self feel old. I feel like an outsider, observing a world in which I am clearly an outcast.
“It’s packed,” I say to Kaitlyn as we enter the dimly lit club filled with wall-to-wall people.
“What?” Kaitlyn responds.
“It’s—never mind, follow me,” I answer motioning her to follow my lead. Making our way through the crowd, I feel like a deep-sea scuba diver without an oxygen tank, gasping for breath before finally arriving at the emptiest spot I can find. A sudden case of claustrophobia takes hold of me.
I scour the room looking for the closest thing to intelligent life. Typically, I enjoy dancing, but the mob of dancers erratically swaying their arms, jumping, and thrashing around the dance floor intimidates me. I spot a group of thirty-something-year-olds paying their tab and hover over them in order to claim their table. They willingly relinquish the table and give me a ‘save yourself’ look.
“Good luck,” one of them says to me as she leaves.
“I think I’m underdressed,” I say to Kaitlyn when she sits down at the table with me.
“Actually, I think you’re overdressed,” she replies.
She is right. My baggy sweater and skinny jeans stand out amongst the skintight miniskirts and heels that outfit most of the females. “How are we supposed to compete with this?”
“I don’t think we can. One beer and then we leave,” Kaitlyn suggests.
A waitress comes over at that moment as if reading our minds. She seems surprised at our drink order of beer. “Have you seen our list of specialty drinks? Our ‘Sex on the Beach in Hawaii’ and our ‘Woo Woo Right Now’ drinks are our top sellers.”
“What’s the difference between Sex on the Beach and Sex on the Beach in Hawaii,” I ask the waitress, having had my share of Sex on the Beaches in college—the drink, that is.
“We add pineapple juice.”
I peruse the Specialty Drinks menu she hands me and notice that most of the drinks have been slightly renamed and reformulated, which must be the bar’s justification for the exorbitant drink prices.
“I’ll try the Woo Woo Right Now,” I order.
“Make that two,” Kaitlyn says.
“Cheers,” Kaitlyn toasts when our drinks arrive. “We can have our fancy, frou-frou drink and then find another bar. We’ll bar hop, a drink per place.”
“I like that idea unless there’s a cover charge.” The $10 cover charge we just paid should have been a warning to what we would encounter inside—expensive frilly drinks, seizure-inducing music, and guys sporting more hair gel than I’ve used in my entire life.
The next bar Kaitlyn and I try out is more my scene. There is no cover charge or guilt about ordering a plain beer, the music contains lyrics, and the male-female ratio seems promising.
I wait at the bar to order a beer for the two of us, while Kaitlyn walks around looking for an empty table. I wiggle my way through the crowd at the bar, working to gain eye contact with one of the two bartenders working. I watch as a group of guys beside me ogles two blond girls to my left. The bartender hands two beers to the blonds and motions over to the guys to indicate that the drinks are from them. The girls nod and raise their beers in gratitude, mouthing the words “thank you” without feeling the need to join them.
They must get that a lot. If that had been me, I would have felt obligated to go over and thank the guys in person. But it wasn’t me. It was the females on the other side of me—the group of guys literally had to look past me to see them. Apparently, I am invisible to the guys and the bartenders who are insistent on not serving me.
One of the guys from the group suddenly looks over and smiles. I smile back, relieved to know that I am not actually invisible. He gets the bartender’s attention and points over at me.
Now we’re talking.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks.
“Can I get a Bud Light—actually two?” I had almost forgotten about Kaitlyn. Am I wrong to order two beers when a guy buys you a drink?
I nod over at the guy and whisper, “Thank you.” He, in turn, nods back.
“That will be $12,” the bartender says when handing me the beers. I try to hide my surprise and disappointment while handing over my money. The thought of not tipping the bartender is tempting—after all, he did initially ignore me at the bar—but as a former waitress, I tip him anyway.
“Here you go,” I say handing a drink to Kaitlyn. “Would you mind drinking it fast? I’m ready to go.”
“What? We just got here?”
“It’s been long enough,” I mutter under my breath. Déjà vu is in full force with flashbacks of previous humiliating bar crawls. Why do I put myself through this? Is this what my life has come to—pointless evenings reeking of desperation and despair? Am I fated to be an old spinster?
It is another hour before Kaitlyn is ready to leave. Her level of flirting always increases exponentially after her final exams. Stroking her hair as she speaks, Kaitlyn makes small talk with a group of guys standing nearby. I watch as she giggles and acts enamored by the conversation. At one point, I think I even catch her winking at one of the guys.