"Blah blah other movie looks like this blah actress, blah?" The sentence torpedoed toward me with the explosive attachment of an interrogative tone - someone was talking to me. Asking me a question, in fact, which has the added annoyance of an expected answer. I looked up. In the correct direction, even. A tall David Foster Wallace-ette of a man was hunched over my barstool. Wanting to reciprocate the courage it took to swing down to my neck of the woods (judging by his height, it must have been a long trip), I peered into his iPhone screen to do whatever analysis of the ginger-haired actress about which he thought I might have crucial insight.
"I've never seen Lord of the Rings," I said, smiling, hoping to spike the conversation with some sort of swiftly terminal punctuation. I turned back to my beer. Apparently that film was not a prerequisite to this exchange, because he leaned closer and asked yet another question.
I wasn't trying to be dismissive or rude or distant. He seemed nice enough. Stubble peppered over his strong jaw and jovial aplomb oscillated from his warm eyes. But even the most neutral, conversational interest could be quickly mistaken for flirtation in these places. As he spoke, I imagined us making love. It was less a fantasy and more a... compulsion; automatic and reflexive. "I heard they're going to make a prequel..." Thrust I heard they're going to make a prequel..." Thrust. "I heard they're going to make a-"
"I mean, I see your point, but the real star was obviously the casting director," I posited, jerking myself out of the apparition. "Whoever read a script about aliens and thought that Amy Adams would fit into that world obviously had favors owed to them up the wazoo, am I right? Thank God it worked," I clinked his glass with my own.
I was right. He said so, grinned, and turned to go see the band that had just appeared on stage.
It's not that I wasn't having a good time; I was just getting drunk too quickly for how alone I was at the bar and I needed the experience to retain its label of "pregame" without being gluttonously dishonest with myself. On Monday, sniffling through the band's Spotify page, it became clear that I jumped ship too early. I do wish I stuck around for the main event instead of getting greedy and gambling on a dance floor which was as fruitless as it was inviting. Unrequited grinding makes me want to walk into the sea. Imagine if you bought tickets to Beyonce, and left after Fergie's opening act to go stick your fingers in the electrical sockets of some club. It wasn't that dramatic, but still.
I took a deep breath. I practiced surrounding myself with both plants and coworkers to remind myself that change is occurring, even if its not on my timeline. I practiced colliding full-force with Bud Light Limes and miniature cigars to reconcile myself with the embarrassment that was the last line's wholesome self-care. I practiced what my therapist calls visualization, but what I call imagining what it would be like to actually pay money for something like dry shampoo.
Sometimes I'm self-destructive just because... it's fucking funny. The plants are browning, anyhow.
