That was so horrible I don’t even know where to start…
After spending days agonizing about this thing, I almost chickened out. How horrible could it be, I thought? Little did I know. So I gave myself a stern talking-to and headed out. I walked downtown (which is a good hike from my place), and started out going to Needles in the Hay for a bit of knitting and some sisterly reassurance to calm my nerves before I went. It’s just around the corner from the bar where the event took place. “Come back if it’s horrible”, they said. I hoped I wouldn’t. I knew that I would.
Way too many women, very few men, one former client (yikes). I grabbed a drink and sat at a table. “Al” (names changed to protect the innocent) came over to talk to me. Al was perfectly nice for a 70 year old widower. He felt just as weird as I did. Fortunately, “Marion” came over, who was much more his age, so I jollied them along for a bit and then left them alone. I hope they hit it off. They were by far the nicest folks there, and I thought they were kind of cute together.
So, up to the bar I go again. There’s a guy standing by himself at the end of the bar, so I chatted him up a bit. Nice guy. Appropriate age. Not short. Pleasant chit chat, in which I discovered we had NOTHING AT ALL in common. This is his second time at one of these events. Pretty much he stands at the end of the bar all night. My chat with him was the highlight of the whole evening. He’s a perfectly nice man – for someone else.
I pretty much decided it was a bust after three martinis in the space of an hour. The bartender was super nice, but a bit youngish. I asked him about local venues for folks like me, and he had some good suggestions. It was just soooo wrong for me, he caught that. There was no funk. No cool. No youthful exuberance. Just stinking middle-aged despair. It sucked giant balls, quite frankly, and once again, it was the 50 Foot Woman in the Land of the Little People. You think standing out from the crowd would be an advantage, but … no. But I gotta say – I looked good. I felt good. I felt – too good for this bullshit.
I was heading out, and the hostess said, oh, you should talk to so-and-so (Brian? Maybe?) who was just walking by. I introduced myself, shook hands and he turned on his heel and walked away. Wow. That’s a big fuck-you, girl. Dude was nothing to write home about, either. I said to the hostess, I just don’t think this is for me. I’m looking for someone more…academic? She said, we get the odd one, but they’re snapped up fast. No guff! Anyway, she and I will talk more about her intro service. The mixers, however, are just NOT for me. I felt like a chicken at Merv’s (old Bracebridge people will know Merv’s).
I went back to knitting. Apparently they’d just been hopefully musing that since I hadn’t come back, maybe it went all right. Sorry, goils. No go.
So, Selda and I went out drinking at the Black Horse. And who walks in but icky “Brian” and four desperate, fawning women. I was soooo glad I wasn’t one of them… I liked the singer. I like the pub thing, it’s a much more comfortable venue for me. Selda suggested I make it my new after-work pub. I’ve been there a few times, I like the vibe, I like the music. Apparently they get the City Hall crowd and the highschool teachers after school lets out. I gave the singer a wink and a thumbs up on the way out. It’s nice to have friends to hang with, for sure.
So. For the next month, I will go once a week to the Black Horse after work for a pint. That’s my commitment. Having a pint by myself couldn’t possibly be worse than Over 40 Singles Night. I like me. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m sure as hell too good for that bullshit.