Mel and my dinner date had to cancel, which is fine with Mel. She's exhausted and needs a night off. I probably should do the same, but I was in bed by 10 last night. And my co-worker really likes my ensemble today.
"Don't waste it! Go sit at a bar by yourself and own it." screamed Amanda.
"No, I can't."
"Who are you? Of course you can!"
"Come with me." I begged.
"I can't." She smiled. "I have a date."
Amanda is fearless. She met some dude off the internet and they went to a park and played catch.
I was both inspired and horrified.
But still. She's right. There was a time when me sitting at a bar by myself was the highlight of my evening. I had this confidence, this carelessness, this look.
Oh man, my look rocked.
Actually, I have two looks. Both of which I'm going to try and bring back tonight.
Look Number One is just my sitting at a bar alone and owning it. I call it my "Don't fuck with me unless you know what you're getting yourself into look."
I feel like Look Number One means only the truly brave, hilarious and obscenely wealthy will muster the courage to initiate the chat.
Look number two? Ladies and gents, gays and straights, it works for us all.
If you see someone cute in a bar, party, pumping gas, whatever and you get the feeling they might have just checked out out, make eye contact and with a straight face, hold it. Hold it for as long as you're emotionally capable (7 seconds max), then slowly look away and smile.
The first time I ever did this was to the bartender at the Redwood Room who then sent my table shots and 10 minutes later, asked me to go "smoke" on the side stairs.
The last time I ever did this was Thursday night, egged on by Melissa. "That guy in the suit and baseball hat (?) is totally checking you out!"
He was cute in a Guy-from-Fine-Young-Cannibals sort of way.
So I did the look.
No shots. No making out on the stairs. Nuthin. But you know, everyone's hit or miss. And sadly, I'm no longer 25 and in a beaded kimono.
Anyway, I'm kinda feelin' it. Tonight, folks. Yep. I will be alone. At a bar. All by my lonesome. Looking for a little action.
And I think we all know I will end up talking to a 70 year old drunk named Rusty about his colitis.
The only question is...which bar?