Old and Single-A day in the life.

This past Friday night, I got a call from a friend of mine asking if I wanted to grab a drink and a bite to eat. I jumped at the chance to sit in a room that wasn’t my living room and have a good chat and chew with a buddy. I should lay some foundation here in regards to my pal. She is in her forties, insanely energetic and perky, runs marathons for shits and giggles and will do tequila shots from her belly button on command.

It’s a challenge keeping up with her at the best of times and the few times we have gone out- men end up joining our table to salivate while I sit like a circus freak and scan my blackberry in hopes that someone is trying to contact me.

So this past Friday we ended up at a local roadhouse called the Cat’s Caboose.
It’s a casual joint around the corner from my house which acts as a harmless family establishment during the day but morphs into a version of “ Looking for Mr. Goodbar” for the 40- 60 year old demographic at night.

They usually have a band playing nostalgic dance tunes. The dance floor is crowded with single women shaking their groove thing and the air is thick with sweat, perfume, hair products and aftershave. Tight jeans and high heels are mandatory, bedazzled t-shirts and big, big hair. It would be fine if this could be enjoyed as a spectator sport but when you sign on to an evening at the Caboose, you are expected to participate.

As we finished up our meal, my pal suggested we go closer to the action and watch the band, so we saddled up to the island by the bar for a closer view. There is, I must confess a tiny voice in my head that says, “ So what if you happened to meet the man of your dreams at the Cat’s Caboose?”

Spend 20 minutes in there and you will quickly understand that it ain’t gonna happen. As I anticipated, a group of men gathered around the island to watch my pal shake and groove. I looked to my left and there was a bald man wearing a ton of bling including an unusually large stone necklace. He stood about 4ft, 11 inches and had a thick French Canadian accent. He leaned in and shouted, “ Dis band dey do good song eh?”

I asked him to repeat the phrase several times as “Brick House” thundered in my ears. I think I caught him craning to look past my breasts to catch a glimpse of my friend. She was busy entertaining a 60 something year old man, again with the bling and a perm.
He introduced us to his sad sack friend saying, “ He used to live in LA and work in the movie business but he quit that and came home” By the looks of him I wasn’t convinced that it was his decision to quit the movie business. He nodded hopelessly and turned his attention to my pal.

I caught the eye of a large man standing opposite me as I tapped my foot to a little ditty about Jack and Diane. He was bald, imposing, decked out in a 3 piece suit, diamond pinkie, no surprise bling and a tattoo sitting dangerously close to his Adams apple that read,
“ Fuck Pain”

I am not easily deterred by a bad boy but something about this guy really screamed turn and run.

There are many reasons that I may not be a prize and yes I am a snob ( there I’ve said it) but this was like walking into a scene from Pulp Fiction. And when did men start wearing so much jewelry? Is this really what is left when you get to my age? How do you bridge the 25 year old that is still in your mind with the 50 year old that is now inhabiting your body? This scene would be totally acceptable 20 years ago. Going out to dance and mingle and flirt. Why does it now seem so ridiculous and embarrassing? And yet, I’m not ready for the singles’s cruises or lawn bowling. I’m stuck in a horrifying limbo that can only lead to a continued relationship sharing blissful hours watching other people’s reality.

I miss my 25 year old self. I used to love sport flirting, spontaneous dancing, unhealthy choices and carrying on till all hours. I was at my afore mentioned friends house for dinner a while back. Our kids are great friends and they were playing downstairs. It was a Thursday night, nothing crazy. She had invited a male friend of hers to drop by and we lingered over after dinner wine as he aggressively tried to sell me on some ponzi scheme involving internet advertising. ( more on that another time)

Suddenly my fit young friend jumped up and turned on an English Beat CD and called us into the living room to dance. Don’t get me wrong, I love her energy and free spirit, I really do but the idea of the 3 of us dancing in her living room on a Thursday evening at 9:20 seemed horribly wrong. No one needs to see that, I thought to myself as I reluctantly got to my feet. I was uncomfortable and imagined myself outside of the situation watching from the corner. God I would have loved to witness it from that perspective.
I shifted my feet a bit to “ Hands off She’s Mine” and tried not to make eye contact with my other dance partners but it was hopeless. I couldn’t get my groove on.

I’m not saying I’ll never dance again. Ten drinks and I’m yours. I still think I’m fun, at least I amuse myself to no end but I’m leaning more towards a dinner party filled with good food, good wine, lots of quips and some semi-intelligent discourse that stops short of politics or green energy.

Rock on Cat’s Caboose, there is no shame in getting dolled up and hitting the bricks looking for love. It’s just not for me. The very idea of meeting strangers seems overwhelming. What’s the big fat idea around coupling anyway?
Seriously, Fuck Pain!