The Chat-Up

Just over a month ago, I announced that I was going to go out and have the mother of all celebrations for my fortieth birthday.  For a number of reasons, some of which were beyond my control, the shindig didn't eventuate, and my best mate has been at me to reschedule ever since.  Well, thanks to her incessant pleading/nagging/threats of bodily harm, I finally gave in.  Next Saturday, we are hitting the Irish pubs of Melbourne for a night of Bailey's, Boys and Bad Karaoke - but my chronic shyness has had a major resurgence of late, and is threatening to put the kibosh on all but two of these activities.  Fortunately, my best mate is the most stubborn, bull-headed woman in the universe, and will have none of my refusals or excuses this time around.  She told me that my inability to initiate conversation with men, (while sober), could be solved by the implementation of a time-honoured practice that has been used the world over since social interaction began all those years ago - you know, before women waxed their legs.

The icebreaker.

'All you need is a really great line, delivered in just the right way.  Men do it all the time.  It can't be that hard.'

So sayeth the tall, gorgeous, blue-eyed Rachel McAdams lookalike who has never had to approach a man in her life.  Still, a conversation starter might not be a bad idea, and I think I've come up with a good one: I'm going to tell them about the blog!

It might sound crazy to try to capture the attention of potential suitors by telling them that if we do decide to take things further, thousands of other people will be reading all about it.  Well, not ALL of it - I'm not      angling for an HBO series.  I do have to wonder about the types of men this approach would attract.  I mean, do I really want to share physical space with a guy who would read my blog the following week, eagerly searching for a mention of himself like he was trying out for a football team?  (And yes, I do know what that analogy suggests - shut up).  Some guys would understandably be put off by it, particularly if they had never actually read the blog.  For all they know, it could be a performance review, (something I would NEVER partake in, unless I was assessing my own talents, or lack thereof).  Everyone I've told about this, which no doubt now includes you, thinks it's insane and, you know what I say to that?

Thank you.

Why?  Because it's a compliment.  It takes bravery to put ones self out there and do the crazy thing, and if you guys think that much of me, then I must be a lot gutsier than I thought I was.

Or just crazy.

Time will tell.  

*Note:  I just realised that the phrase 'Take things further' may be misconstrued as code for 'Engage in non-committal carnal festivities.'  This was not my intention.  At least at the time of writing.          

A night on the town.

Despite the fact that I woke up this morning feeling like I'd been doused in honey and glued to a hornet's nest, I feel great.  My mouth is as dry as if I ate a pack of Marlborough's, Keith Moon's playing a virtuosic solo in my head, and I may be having an out-of-body experience as we speak, but I can't bring myself to complain.  The reason for my undue exuberance? 

I went out last night.

It took two glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream and a best friend who claims English as her second language when someone utters the word 'no,' but I did it.  We had planned this a week ago but true to form my nerves soon got the better of me and, by Friday night, I was on the phone trying to cancel. 

She was having none of it.

Yesterday afternoon, she arrived on my doorstep decked out in her Saturday night best.  Ignoring my protests as I let her in, she pushed past me into my bedroom, demanding to see my latest quarry from eBay, (I'm a bit of a vintage fashion collector).  Throwing three dresses onto the end of my bed, she commanded me to try each of them on and report to her in the hallway for inspection.  I obeyed, and we eventually decided upon the pink, polka dotted, a-line sixties dress I had originally intended to wear before I got an attack of hermit-itis.  My bestie is one of those people who believes in imbibing a bit of dutch courage before embarking on a night out, and although this is not something I would normally endorse, on this particular occasion, it did wonders.

I arrived at our chosen venue with minimal expectations, based on previous experience, and decided to have a good time the only way I know how; by acting like no one was watching.  Our laughter, and, I like to think, my 'ribald' sense of humour, attracted like-minded people of both genders and we were soon the most happening table in the tavern.  I received some favourable comments on my dress, and one on my singing by a gentleman who happened to catch my You Tube vlog, (suddenly I'm not quite as embarrassed to have picked a country song), and despite the fact that I make Elaine from Seinfeld look like the chick from Saturday Night Fever, I even indulged in a spot of dancing.  Did I kiss any boys?  No.  Were phone numbers exchanged?  No.  Did I have to go home at nine-thirty because I came down with food poisoning after eating three potato cakes of questionable quality from a dodgy fish and chip shop earlier in the day? 

Yes, but despite the fact that I spent much of the rest of the night practising my scales in a tiled porcelain studio, it still goes down as one of the best nights I've had in a long time.  I talked, I laughed, and other people responded in kind and you want to know something else?  I'm doing it again next Saturday night. 

Sans the potato cakes, of course.