The other night I went to see my friend’s band play. They’re called Lake Street Dive, FYI.* The concert was at a bar. It was one of those establishments that has, like, two tables, so really the only room to sit and sway with the music was at the actual bar. Lucky for me I have a charming personality that matches those of hermits, the clinically insane, and bartenders. Not surprisingly, bartenders 1 and 2 and I got along swimmingly.
But my point is not about my personality. It is that, while sitting at the bar being adorable in my little black dress and boots, I was hit on. By a hideously drunk couple. (That’s two people. Not one, it’s two. Not just a man, there was also a woman.)
“Who are they?” The woman asked, leaning too close for my comfort. I don’t let anyone lean that close. Unless that person happens to be Ben Barnes
. In that case, he and his beautiful locks may lean as close as he so desires.
But I digress.
“Lake Street Dive,” I yelled in her ear.
Drunk Lady shrugged. She didn’t hear me. I yelled again. I yelled loudly. I yelled, even though the music and the other talking and the cup stacking right in front of us by bartender Flip all told me she wasn’t going to hear me. But I yelled anyway, and it was louder than the cumulative volume of all of these plus a freight train. She still didn’t hear me. Her eardrums must have been drunk as well.
I mouthed a few more phrases at her, just for kicks. They included:
- “Your shorts are tacky.”
- “You have spinach in your teeth.”
- “Flip is making eyes at you.”
- “If you reach one more time for my glass of water, you’ll be wearing it.”
She threw me a blank stare. “Well are they any good?” She moved on. And then she gave me what was supposed to be her seductive eyes. Her bedroom eyes. She was doing her best come-and-get-me face. And had I remembered to bring a mirror in my purse, her reflection would have reached out, slapped the skin off her skull, and reminded her that by minding my own business, I had no intention of forgetting my heterosexuality for that—or any—night.
I turned back to my left, where J was waiting ever so patiently for my comments regarding my latest foray in 19th-century literature. Yes, I’m a nerd and I take that with me to the bar and on any other efforts I may make to be a normal 26-year-old.
A few minutes later, I felt a hand graze my right
thigh upper thigh hip. I snapped my head in that direction so quickly it set the world record for time taken to acquire whiplash. An ugly man’s head blocked my view. And it was talking to me, as though we’d been in conversation for hours. As though it knew me. As though we arrived at the bar together, were great pals, and would be leaving together.
“Do you like to dance?” Drunk Dude asked. I recognized him as Drunk Lady’s male companion.
I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut me off. “You look like you do.” His hand grazed my hip again. I looked down at his hand, and then back up at him. His droopy eyelids were barely holding themselves open. His right arm was barely holding on to Drunk Lady’s stool. I knew if I reached out, I could flick his forehead and send him pummeling to the ground. But then there were other victims and a beautifully-tiled floor and my disinterest in giving a statement to the police to consider. So I didn’t.
Another hand graze brought me out of my trance. Drunk Lady was watching this interaction with great intensity. Reading lips really must be a difficult thing.
“Yeah, you look like you like to get jiggy with it,” Drunk Dude was saying. And there it is, ladies. There is at least one adult male in this world who propositions girls with phrases including “get jiggy with it.” Watch out; it’s a crazy world out there.
“Uh, actually, no,” I reply. While I always knew these thighs would come in handy one day, it was not to give signal that I like to get jiggy with it. Apparently he thought otherwise.
“I. SAID. NO. I won’t dance with you.”
“Oh, no?” he innocently responded. “Why not?”
“Because I’m in a conversation.”
“I’m talking to my friend.”
“You’re being boring?”
Are my words really that indecipherable? A lightbulb went off in my head. Yes I’ll admit I’m boring if you leave me alone. He must know people who know me and my homebody habits.
“Yes, I’m being boring.”
Drunk Lady was still staring. She gave up a while ago at following the conversation and was just fixated on me.
“OK, well, if you decide you want to quit being boring and get jiggy with me, you let me know.” He was completely oblivious that he could be even slightly offensive. I knew I saw tact leave the building when he entered.
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“OKOKOK.” And I turned back to J and our riveting conversation. Sometime later I heard Drunk Dude refer to me as Boring Chick. No one was listening to him. And no one even cared when he and his ladyfriend left the bar. But I did get enjoyment out of watching her parade through the crowd, giving her best Miss America pageant wave before tripping over her own feet and hugging the doorframe.
*At this point in the program, I will interrupt for an all-seriousness news bulletin. This band that I have mentioned was my sole cause for having set foot in that bar. They are called Lake Street Dive, and they are good. Like, really good. Like, they’re the bee’s knees and the cat’s meow and they should have a placeholder on every single one of your playlists.