Seven girls walk into a bar. A bar consisting of a five to one male ratio. We were in for it. I know.
It's the kind of bar where there's a tiny dance floor playing reggaeton and Britney Spears in one corner and all 7% of the girls are dancing while about 70% of the men are huddled around nodding and doing up-down's on each one.
I gave in (this doesn't leave this blog)-for half a song-until I realized I needed more alcohol to turn me into the Saturday Night Fever that seemed to consume all my friends.
I back away with friend #1. We get drinks. We drink. We drink faster. We pray it gives us the momentum to get down with our bad selves.
We squeeze through grabby hands to get back to friends three through seven.
My drink gets spilt all over me by some girl who thought she was in a J.Lo video.
I stand still for a second until I realize the drink was two bucks. And life goes on. And I hate J.Lo.
My phone goes off so I reverse from waving arms and whipping hair.
As I'm standing against the bar, I feel a hand grab my waist and squeeze.
I knew it wasn't one of my friends, at least not this time.
I turn to my left.
Flat billed hat with sticker on it, check. Four inches shorter than me, check. Grinning so much I thought his eyes were going to explode, check.
I just stare. He just stands there...waiting.
(Insert disgusting look)
(Insert incessant grinning)
Of course, this shitty bar has one bathroom and every woman in the bar was in line for it.
As the door opens each time, all I can see are a mess of girls talking shit on their friends who aren't in the bathroom while others are putting makeup on each other and some are texting. All in a single bathroom. While the rest of us are ready to just die.
So we book it to a place that understands a one-stall women's restroom is the stupidest decision for any bar owner. Ever.
Time passes. What seems like an hour is only ten minutes.
Lines. Why? This isn't Hollywood.
We all get in. Only after a fight with a stranger in line about so and so's something or other.
We grab some booths. We get drinks. It's packed. It was like Club Deviate meets taco Tuesday.
Is the DJ wearing a Lucha Libre mask?
Why are there balloons here?
Did we crash a birthday party?
Confusion occurs. I wanted to click my heels. But they weren't heels. They were flats. And they weren't red. They were blue.
Some of my friends go to another table while I stay with one who came later. He (the "he" part is important shortly) gets up to get a drink and close the tab.
I look down for what must have been a second and five guys swarm in the booth.
Friend comes back. Looks of more confusion. I know what this looks like, but help?
"Seriously, go away, this seat is taken."
"Okay, okay, okay. But can I get your number?"
So smooth. So debonair.
I wonder how many numbers are in this person’s phone as "random girl at bar who I think had blonde hair, I think."
They leave; pissed of course. Idiots.
I'm sure they prowled the room for more girls who would be left alone for a mere minute.
Girls leave bar, at least what's left of them.