Ever get the feeling you might be the punchline in a great cosmic joke? Well, a less than stellar Friday evening out lead me to conclude that someone, somewhere was pissing themselves laughing at my expense. Just over a week ago, I was celebrating the one year anniversary of my last real date when my friend Corrina called. After somehow managing to decipher what I was saying between sobs, she suggested that we go out the following weekend. It was with a healthy mixture of excitement, nervousness and hormone-induced enthusiasm that I went with her to a well known Irish pub in the city. Alas, despite the fact that the male to female ratio was for once in our favour, and that roughly seventy per cent of said males looked like they had just returned from an NCIS L.A audition, the two of us were about as popular as a keg full of lemonade at a Hells Angels mixer. This was largely to do with the fact that our competition was embryonic go-go dancers with enough disposable income to afford all the ten dollar beers they could drink, and designer t-shirts with necklines somewhere south of Hell.
I was ranting about this the next day, quietly so as not to aggravate the angry hunchback who was playing a hardcore rock opera on church bells inside my head, when Corrina astutely pointed out that the Kardashian clones we encountered at the tavern were not too dissimilar to ourselves at the same age. We too once knew the joys of being able to walk into a bar and have several dozen pairs of eyes on us. We too once felt the sting of women in their thirties burning holes into our backs with their death stares as we sat on the laps of men who were more their intellectual equivalent than our own. We too once laughed at those women, secure in the knowledge that we wouldn't need to hang out in bars by the time we got that old.
As usual, Corrina had managed to take my scattered ravings and put them into perspective for me, and for that I thank her. And to the lovely creature who thought it would be hysterical to 'accidentally' knock me out of the way on the dance floor, I bare no grudge, and would like to offer the following piece of advice. Should one of those men whose laps you warm so well put a ring on your finger, be sure that he is interested in you for more than just your Daisy Duke clad behind. With no husband to distract her, this single thirty something has a lot more workout time these days, and Gravity, like karma, is a bitch.