Instead of a standard analytical habitat post, this is something I wrote about what it's like for certain single men out at a bar. Enjoy.
There are two types of single men: Men that can get it done and men that
can’t. It’s that simple. Some men go home from the bar with the
statuesque blond that wears her skin-tight dress very well. Some men go home and eat a Hot Pocket. That is not to say that Mr. Hot Pocket
doesn’t have the ability to walk away
with the trophy. He just has no idea how
to harness the get-some energy that is buried deep within.
Going out on the town brings with it a myriad of
possibilities. Every time a single
person (man or woman) goes out for some weekend drinkage, it’s like starting
the New Year over again. The slate is clean
and the night is theirs. To Mr. Hot
Pocket, there is much more to it. He can
see the scenarios laid out before him.
But he can also see the stress, nerves, screw-ups, lost money, and
drunken stupidity that surfaces from trying to break the microwavable snack
cycle. As his night unfolds, he will be
presented with situations that will require him to make decisions that are much
easier for other people. For Mr. Hot
Pocket, it may be the difference between the gold medal and 4th
place. In a not-so-literal sense, the
night out for a single man with no game becomes a real life
choose-your-own-adventure.
STAGE 1: PREPARATION
The lead up to a night out is perhaps the apex of confidence. A shower, a shave, and then a wardrobe
decision:
A)
Collared shirt and jeans.
OR
B)
Immature, funny-only-to-him T-shirt and
backwards cap.
Choice A seems like the no-brainer. He would look presentable and perhaps catch a
few extra glimpses. Choice B screams one
thing: Keep that douchebag away from me.
Yet depending on how saucy he feels, Mr. Hot Pocket may go with the
latter. You know, the whole “I’m not out
to impress anybody, but really I am” mentality.
That is not a good look.
Eventually, the proper choice for this specific night is
made. Into the hair goes a stone-setting
amount of gel. A quick check for
deodorant, another look in the mirror and it’s time to roll. “You got this” is often the internal dialogue
as a man leaves for his epic night.
STAGE 2: ARRIVAL
He shows up at the establishment ready to take that bitch
on. He flashes his ID, steps inside, and
scopes out the scene. He gives his
compatriots, with whom he has embarked on this carnal journey, a reassuring
smile. This is definitely the best place
for some sort of magic to happen. He
walks up to the bar to get his beverage.
This is where, quite possibly, his most important decision of the night
occurs:
A)
liquor
OR
B)
Beer?
Should he choose liquor, he will go from zero to drunk in a
matter of a few drinks. Memories will be
fuzzy, actions inexcusable, and speech incoherent. He bypasses Increased Confidence and
completely immerses himself in Drunken Jackass.
Essentially, he would be dousing himself in gasoline and lighting
himself on fire when it comes to impressing young ladies.
Should he choose beer, he can temper his drunken
antics. Beer is a slow progression. It is a vessel that allows him to
methodically map out how he wants to approach the task at hand. At the same time, he must be careful. Beer is a sneaky son-of-a-gun. A man can feel solid and confident one minute
and decide it’s time to keep the golden waves of joy flowing. But that is the trap. A man tends to get goofier and begin his
matriculation toward the point of no return, where no one wants to be around
him. ‘Tis a fine line.
STAGE 3: ENGAGEMENT
Liquid Courage is a glorious thing. In a standard environment without readily
available alcohol, the corner of the room feels like home. When you pop the bottles and tap the kegs,
the impossible seems possible. A whole
new world presents itself. There is a
bevy of coeds on which to prey. As he
scans the room like a creepy psycho, he must decide:
A)
The super-hot, scantily-clad-perfect-10-that-is-way-out-of-his-league-but-he’s-been-drinking-so-what-difference-does-it-make.
OR
B)
The attractive girl that is way more normal,
personable, attainable, suitable and no less than a 6 when he’s sober.
A target is chosen. Like the slow, frumpy kid playing dodge
ball, he selects the female he believes will give him the least resistance. He approaches.
He can either:
A)
Open the conversation with the pointers he
learned from watching The Pick-Up Artist.
OR
B)
Be himself, use the lines in his own arsenal,
and hope he is smooth enough to keep the conversation going.
Odds are that no matter which one he chooses, the climb to
the top of the hill is steep. But if he
can keep her talking (possibly involve her friends) then he feels like he is
doing well. “Okay, and we are off and
rolling,” he thinks. So far, so good.
Then it appears that both parties are holding empty glasses. Another critical decision:
A)
Buy another round and keep the good vibes going.
OR
B)
Pull the trigger and ask her if she wants to
leave.
Conventional wisdom says that generally speaking more
alcohol is better. At least in terms of
convincing women that they might actually be attracted to the man they are
talking to. Also, after copious amounts
of alcohol, who feels like “one more round” isn’t a good idea? But if at this point, Mr. Hot Pocket decides
he has this in the goddamn bag (because he is on a whole new level this evening),
he may take the final dive on the dagger and ask the ultimate question:
WANNA GET OUTTA HERE?
STAGE 5: CLOSING
It is at this point that the night can go fatally wrong if
it has not already. There are two
possibilities which will determine the remainder of Mr. Hot Pocket’s night:
A)
She says okay let’s go (Yippee!).
OR
B)
No, I’m going to leave with my miserable friends.
If she is a willing
participant in the most awkward bedroom escapade of her life, then he is
simultaneously ecstatic and ready to throw up in his own mouth. As pressure to perform mounts, the anxiety
boils over. He has two choices:
A)
Not worry what this girl thinks about him.
OR
B)
Be so consumed with his perceived disdain from
her that he screws up everything related to happy naked time.
If he chooses A, then the night simply becomes a random
romp. Legs and arms flailing, heavy
breathing with a potent stench of alcohol, some inconvenient angles, a little
hair in the mouth. All in all, a
success. They may or may not see each
other again. There is a particular
understanding they have as she walks out the door in her disheveled state. The awkward goodbye is the feather in the cap
of an interesting evening.
If he chooses B, Murphy’s Law is in full effect. He wonders if he should leave his shirt on;
he can’t figure out how to get her clothes off; he can’t figure out the condom
wrapping; he struggles to get the baby blocker on, etc. etc. Throughout the horrific act of these bodies
coming together, all he thinks about is her opinion of him: “OMG OMG she’s not
having fun. She doesn’t want to be
here. She’s going to laugh about this
with her friends. She’d never answer a
phone call from me. She’s not happy, oh god, this is not going to
end well for either of us.”
After three minutes of inexplicable atrocities, she
leaves. She tosses him a slight smile
out of courtesy, and she leaves in silence.
He stands in his boxers, still drunk, with his hands on his hips,
shaking his head like a basketball player that just missed a buzzer-beater to
win the championship. Sure, he feels a
sense of satisfaction. After all, the
sexual mountain has been climbed. He
also feels like self-analysis. He runs
the whole ordeal through his brain over and over again. He questions his performance. He certainly wouldn’t have won any Olympic
medals. But he must not fret, for he is
drunk, he got ass, and he must sleep off the rum. He will have plenty of time to reflect
tomorrow, preferably over a Chipotle burrito.
He hits the sack. On this
particular evening, he has no need for anything out of a box and a crisping
sleeve. He has tasted something much
more satisfying.
Let’s rewind…
Say instead of her poorly choosing to engage in some randy
activities, she decides that she would rather be smart and go home with her
friends and discuss boys, Pink’s new single, and Kim and Kanye. Mr. Hot Pocket then has two choices. He can:
A)
Ask her for her number and continue to hang out
at the bar after she leaves feeling like he made his mark.
OR
B)
Give her a hug, wish her a good night, and
wonder what went wrong.
Should he choose A, he has that slight glimmer of hope that
a man needs in order to feel like he has a shot at possibly making a
long-lasting connection. He grabs
another brew and joins his buddies to dish about this girl and all of her
finest qualities.
Should he choose B, he will send himself into a purgatory of
what-ifs. He enters a cauldron of
second-guesses. What did he do
wrong? Did he not look at her enough? Did he not touch her enough? Did he say the wrong thing? Was he not nice to her fat friend? It could be any number of things that are
bouncing around in his head. Much like
in the more favorable previous scenario, he is consumed by the prospect of
having done something so horribly wrong that he has ruined his chances at the
desired final act of the evening. He is
encompassed in a cloud of disappointment so thick, that he no longer believes
he and women are even compatible. He can
never again communicate with them. For
tonight he has discovered that he speaks a language that is incomprehensible to
anyone he is trying to impress. Women
are an alien race never to understand nor be understood.
He goes home. He is
dizzy and flustered. The room
spins. His stomach growls. He turns on the TV and cues up an old-school
movie. He makes his way to the freezer. He opens the door. He sighs.
Boxes of his favorite frozen sandwich snack are aligned on the
shelf. Mr. Hot Pocket may as well have
hit the PowerBall.
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