I had the best night that I’ve had in a long time–maybe even ever–this past Friday. It’s been a while since I’ve really let loose, let my hair down, turn’d up, or whatever the kids are saying these days… so it felt fantastic to go out to the clubs and get a lil’ crazy. Even though I was enjoying myself sans alcohol (this old girl can’t party like she used to) it was nice to get out & socialize.
I loved it. I made normal conversation, witnessed a mind-blowing, gravity-defying dance-off, made abnormal conversation, met new people, and topped off the night with a good deed done right: driving three incredibly inebriated fellas home.
This is where shit got really real: between one of them running away, the other repeatedly attempting to ask my friend Celia out on a date (unsuccessfully–sorry Eric), and the third falling face first into a brick wall, I definitely had my work cut out for me. None of them knew where we were going, two of them were barely conscious, and Eric, well, he was more concerned with romance than actually getting home at any point in time.
Eventually, over a chorus of “Is this a cab?”, “Celia! CELIA!”, “Um, why are you doing this?” and unbridled screaming, I managed to make it downtown–no thanks to any of the buffoons in the back seat. From there we made it to their place (after much ado about everything) and, despite their very best efforts (somebody, I won’t name any names here, couldn’t possibly understand why giving me his keys would be a good idea…), we even managed to get inside the building.
It was fun–even the shitty parts of the night left me laughing. But, given that this is one of very few interactions I’ve had with the opposite sex in a long while, it makes me wonder: how can I ever hope to meet somebody if the guys I am interacting with are too drunk to even remember who they are, much less who I am?
Maybe if I spent more time around sober men (or even men in general) my chances of romance wouldn’t seem so slim.