Going Out On The Town

I went out last night with some friends.

We ate dinner at this great restaurant downtown called Pair. I highly recommend it.

Then we crossed the street and went to a country bar equipped even with a mechanical bull.

For the majority of the two hours I was in this other world, I sat watching people ride the mechanical bull.

I also sat watching the other people there.

The more I watched, the more I took joy in the fact that I don't play the downtown game any more.

There were guys drinking far too much, dressed in their catch-phrase tee shirts with the attemptedly appropriate five o'clock shadow going on and just the right sway in their hair to gain the affections of a "hot chick."

There were girls drinking far too much, dressed in the newest trendy stuff always fixing and adjusting the one strand of hair that may have blown out of its strategically sprayed place, walking with the walk that tells guys to look but only touch if invited by the sultry gaze.

I feel displaced in this environment because I used to do that. I used to go out thinking that I was the shit, when in reality I looked just like any other girl there. I was sprayed, painted and dressed in what was trendy at the time.

These days it's either shrugs or short jackets. And dinosaur hair. When girls pin just the front of their hair on top of their head and make it look poofy, it reminds me of a dinosaur.

There was one girl there who was far too trendy, far too social and far too drunk. When she pulled her shirt and bra out of the way to show everyone at the bar her breasts while on the mechanical bull, I wondered where her friends were because it was at that time that they should have taken her by the arm and told her she was done, that it was time to go home.

I never went out without that friend who would make certain I was healthy, safe and not degrading my self or my body in front of a flock of strangers. For that, I am thankful.

Plus, last night I saw a guy I knew once or twice from that lifetime so far away. Thankfully, he did as good of a job ignoring me as I did of ignoring him.

Except that I don't know if he was ignoring me or if he had no idea. That's the glory of it all - I don't know if he knew my name. I sure didn't remember his. I just have a talent for remembering faces. It's sad, really, but that was part of the game of it all, I suppose.

He was there last night with his girlfriend and they looked so happy smoking their cigarette after cigarette and drinking cheap ass Bud Lite after cheap ass Bud Lite until he couldn't walk straight and she couldn't sit up or even keep her eyes open.

He looked dumpy, overall unhappy, and a little unwashed.

I imagine him still tending bar, still struggling through classes (Does he even take classes?), still making jokes about the wonders of porn, still drinking heavily every night, still scamming around every corner, and still hitching rides home from near strangers.

I thought of my life, with my husband who is not dumpy. My life with a good job and a solid partner also with a good job. My cars. My dog. My education. My home with the walls I painted with my partner and the furniture I picked out with my partner. I thought of the love I share that is independent of how much either of us drinks or the amount of courage we decide to have at any given time.

And I felt happy. Not the happy that comes from a carton of cigarettes and a case of lousy beer, but the happy that comes from security and well-being and accomplishment.