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5:10 p.m. - 2005-07-28 A happy hour foursome of Lisa and Ian plus Alex and I is very jovial and a bizarre play at being grown-ups, but there is an underlying current the boys ignore or don't seem to feel; that of best friends wishing to dish on their boyfriends and acquaintances, mull over solutions without pressure, and to make disgusting or salacious comments. Such things are stifled with boys around. We met at an expensive restaurant with an inexplicably cheap happy hour. Lisa was lying in wait at a booth, her blonde hair spiked to the heavens a la Marie of R0xette, sporting brilliant red lipstick, a sleeveless tee, BDUs, and an arch grin. I'd chosen a square-necked, boned camisole-thing and a fluttery skirt that smacked below the knee with slightly risque boots; heels just sturdy enough to dance all night. I was instantly jealous of her t-shirt. "Oh no!" I'd said before I even had fully slid into the booth. "I should have worn a t-shirt. The green Looney Tunes with a pleated skirt and low-tops. We could have been sisters. Instead we look like a couple! You're the boy, by the way." "That suits me fine," she said wickedly.
As if on cue, a competitive good-looking older woman at the bar winked at me. She looked a lot like Marcy from Married With Children. (It could have been she, really, come to think of it; Amanda Bearse did come out).
We eschewed a cab and decided to stroll up to the club district, talking of Ian's cardiac progress, our upcoming respective vacations--and how I've got to start carrying my boots in a bag on the way to the clubs. They'll last longer, and people will stop staring at me like I'm a stripper. (I've got my own eyebrows, no lipstick and a long skirt, but the boots supercede these salient details and people stare at my new gear 'til we arrive in the neighborhood of choice and begin to blend in.
Lisa got a v0dka cranberry and found it disappointingly dominated by cranberry; I was peeved that the music was extremely loud without being extremely good. I recognized "Rock Your Body" matched to a less-than-advantageous techno beat and wished they would play the original; I have no shame, I'll dance to Timberlake. (Keeps those choking on their own dignity the hell away from me). But it was not to be. Goddamned hipsters.
And we people-watched. Saw only one person we knew; a local photographer of certain ability and a faint, rumored skeeviness.
"I should get your name!" he said to me. "I'm Paul, I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself. And I didn't know you had a friend--hi! The name's Paul." He shook Lisa's hand. It was cute; he was worried he'd stepped on some toes by not acknowledging my girlfriend. We introduced ourselves and waved bye to Paul. As we walked away Lisa said, "So. Do you think he's straight?" "He so wanted to make our acquaintance, but we also look utterly lesbionic. We're afire with lesbianism." "So it's a really tough call." "Yeah. I'm stumped."
Many friends and acquaintances were there, and we had a good time flitting around and saying hello. We're not normally in the club at the same time, and each of us was able to introduce the other to various strangers. We sidled up to the bar; Lisa got a Bloody Mary and I got a vanilla St0li coke. We always tip and we don't incite rioting or vomiting, so the bartenders are extravagant. (This standard is not that hard to meet, actually, so just about everyone has a completely irresponsible cocktail).
The night was in full swing by that time--the club was twice as full, even louder, and quite gay in classic and modern senses. It was athletic and frenetic and naughty--though no more than the average hip-hop video. Which is to say, fairly. Lisa and I went up on a broad raised area at the back of the dance floor and I showed her some bellydancing moves and she showed me some tae kwan do moves, including the reverse punch that she has recently improved. (I'm so proud of her). A linebackerish woman shimmied up to me as she was on her way out with friends and yelled "Show me watcha got!" So we danced for 30 seconds, and I got her to bump hips like Donna Summer. It was a big ol' Madonna video suddenly, only with girls. The atmosphere was decent (in the modern sense only) but the club still didn't overwhelm me with their musical stylings, so Lisa called Ian at a friend's house at 2:30am and he came to get us. I was a little worried about Ian.
"No, no," she said. "His medication has been cut way back. He's doing quite quite well."
"I had a good time," I reported airily from the wilds of the back seat. "Except I should have had another drink." Which was a lie; I'd had two altered cokes and that is enough. So it was for the best.
I know she hopes to settle down and have children, but Ian hasn't officially proposed and his health is now an added, terrifying variable. What must it be like to consider children with a man who's been so close to untimely death? It's hard to ask these things now. It's not yet the time. She's probably allowing herself to think, but she's not in the mood to articulate. She'll probably call me in a month and say "We need to go eat some cheese sticks," and then it'll be on.
Just when am I going to get around to expensive champagne and the tango? Should I? Need I actually replace vodka and stomping around altogether, or should I simply broaden my idea of a night out? Well, yes, certainly. It has to happen sometime. Perhaps I should cut out libations altogether, be kind to my liver an' kidneys and fat cells, and substitute other various passions. Host dinner parties. Go hot air ballooning. And attend concerts were people sit exclusively. The new flick of the zeitgeist shall be Get Snooty, and I shall wear green tea eye creme and never go back. Or perhaps I should pop some X and go to Chuck E. Cheese and hop in the ball tank. No...to the fabric store. I hear velvet is nice under the circumstances. ...I don't know. Single female seeks equilibrium.
Part of this feels grand, and efficient and more focused--and part of it feels positively elderly. So I expect that I will peridodically regress as much as possible, just 'cause. And I will continue to loved getting carded. Oh God, card me. Look twice at my ID, kthx.
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