I live for happy hour. it's kind of like my spirit animal. there is nothing that I love more than drinking directly after work at some seemingly posh bar with my buds (maybe except cheese fries, my louis tote, making fun of awkward people, harry potter ... ). I knew happy hour was on my early list of solo activities and it was the one thing (so far) that really intimidated me. so being my special little self I of course made up nine different reasons not to go -- "omg I'm feeling like my apartment might be on fire from that match I dropped last week, I better go and check." after having a straight up god awful day at work I told myself, "hey asshat, you're going to happy hour tonight since you clearly need no less than five drinks and that's final." not one for change, I played it normally and walked out of work thinking of excuses why I couldn't go. rational sam (she's tall, thin, and super tan) told anxiety ridden sam (she's short, three notches past out of shape, and paler than a dead man), "if the bar doesn't look packed and you can find a spot out front, your ass is going. no excuses." and being that I work in birmingham (concrete jungle where dreams of marrying rich and being destined to have a stick up your ass are made of) I'm surrounded by great restaurants and bars. I always knew where I was going to go (they have half off drinks on tuesdays and that is literally like hitting the jackpot for this lush, seeing as how I'm college student poor from all of the happy hours I go to) and I knew that the place is always packed and parking in birmingham is the equivalent of conversing with people I hate -- a pain in my ass. much to rational sam's delight, bar empty. spot directly out front. fack.
I pulled up my big girl panties and rolled in to that bar like I owned it. I sat on the side of the bar that faces the restaurant so that I could survey the scene -- I'm so mysterious. not one to pass up cheap alcohol, I had two glasses of malbec and attempted to not portray a washed up john hamm looking human being a la 'mad men.' I was surrounded by all men. beautiful looking men. men who were in to each other. well shit there goes that. the bartender did attempt to strike up a convo (I think -- lord knows I can't really tell anymore) but I was too busy being the most awkward person ever and still feeling sorry for myself after my shitastic day to even realize what was happening. and there goes that. I happy hour'ed for an hour, sans phone (painful, but part of the deal), to the tune of $9 and couldn't wait to get my ass out of there. I'm sorry but happy hours are made for friends and shit talking, not silent boozing and constant wonder of how many people think I'm just a big creepy weirdo. if I'm going to be forced to watch espn and drink overpriced (perceived value you guys) wine it better be with a sexual looking man who will at least let me talk about myself during commercials.
moral of the story here: happy hour sans girlfriends is just plain boring. I don't think it's my thing. I'm kind of disappointed that it's not though, I really wanted it to be. when this ol' gals having a banner day I think I may do solo happy hour take two. and I'll go somewhere where I won't be judged for my target jacket -- and fack all of birmingham because that merona jacket is damn cute and I looked fabulous.
things I learned:
1) apparently shaving stripes in your eyebrows is considered attractive.
2) I can't parallel park for shit.
3) old men would rather strike up a convo with a fellow man than a young girl. I thought I could at least count on the geriatric to say something creepy. guess not.
4) I don't trust bartenders who measure their wine pours. I mean have a little compassion and pour me an extra large glass, garçon.
half off wine cheers, y'all!
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| the scene of the crime. I was hoping that little contraption would open up and rain vodka down on me. I also was hoping that those rays were in fact god coming to save me from this misery. |
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| my thoughts exactly. |
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