The Trial Run

My first night out with Miss Independent was very eventful, to say the least.  Here are the highlights:

We arranged to meet downtown at a street crossing, one block away from the action so we could find each other.  I get a text saying she has just parked.  I get to the corner, look around, no wingwoman. Waiting.  Waiting.  Finally get a text asking where I am.  I look around and see a young couple on one corner, a middle-aged man on another, and a homeless bum with a cart full of bags on the other.  Unless Miss Independent thought we were going incognito, I didn’t figure any of them to be her.

Called and asked if she was on the corner of 2nd.  She said yes.  I said I didn’t see her and asked where she was standing.  “By the movie theater,” she replied.  Uh, yeah, the big 3 on the road sign stands for 3rd Street not 2nd.  We’re off to a great start.

Went to dinner and had a very chatty waitress that I believed had a few screws loose.  The dish I was eyeing came with rosemary, so I asked how strong it was.  I don’t mind a hint of rosemary, but it is a potent flavor if there is too much.   She said not too bad but she served it last night without the rosemary.  I was sold.  

Dinner came; plate full of rosemary.  Edible, but not a fave.  When she came by later and asked how it was, I said fine but it was a bit too much rosemary.  She said, “You can always take it home.”  Uh. . . okay.

We then hit a bar that Miss Independent had heard about but hadn’t been to yet.  Popped in for a drink.  Swanky setting and the drinks weren’t bad either.  What was bad was the blatant ogling of my wingwoman by the group of guys standing next to us.  With absolutely no subtlety, instead of just an eye scan, the man bobbed his head up and down.  Dude, mirrors on both walls.  She totally saw you and wasn’t impressed.

After the drink, she took me to what she said used to be one of her “hot spots” but hasn’t been in a few years.  We walked in and realized…oh crap, it’s spring break.  We were two of the oldest people in there, aside from the few 60-year-old men who apparently took a wrong turn down Delusional Lane, thinking they belonged.  But, being older and still getting checked out by college boys is a great confidence boost.  Then, of course, they open their mouths and ruin the whole thing.

One guy walked up to us, crossed his arms and stared.  After about thirty seconds of awkward staring, he opened his mouth.  Nothing came out.  Then he waved his hand across his face, moving his lips, but still saying nothing.  Then, hands on hips, says, “I’m shy.”  Crossed his arms again and stared a bit more.  Really, that’s your opening line?  Act like a mime, gawk, and hope for results…dude.

Then we had another man walk past and stand behind me.  I could tell by Miss Independent’s expression, she had something to say.  The guy was invading my personal space and not in a good way.  Out of no where, some woman says his name and he hesitantly responds and sheepishly hugs her.  He clearly did not want to be found.  Once he left, Miss Independent said he was peeking over my shoulder and making weird eyes at her.

Next we have the return of the ogler.  He daringly approached us, asked if we got tired of the other place, and then introduced himself.  I heard him say Martin.  She said no, it’s Bart.  Since it’s a new friendship, there needs to be a compromise.  So, for argument’s sake, we’ll call him Bartin.  Bartin was a spitter.  And for whatever reason, chose to talk to me.  Great.  But Bartin’s charm didn’t stop with the three spit sprinkles to the face.  Obviously flabbergasted by the clear bubbly substance I was consuming at a bar, asked what I was drinking.  Before I could answer, he said, “Water?  Can I get you another one?  Do you need a refresher”  As he was pulling out his wallet to buy me another.  Guess he’s not aware that alcohol can be clear too.

We worked our way to the dance floor.  A little short guy approached Miss Independent and I heard her ask if he was on spring break.  Oh man, she’s losing her vision.  The guy clearly had a grown man look, rougher skin, no baby-face.  The guy was 32 and a bit offended.  As he walked off I caught a flash of white shirt behind me.  I turned and caught a glimpse of Mr. Miami Vice, shirt unbuttoned to his naval, and 22 years old on a good day.  He was doing what I was assuming to be his drunken mating-call dance moves.  And, oh yeah, those were directed at me.  He was piroetting more than a ballerina on crack and eventually. . . lost his way.  So sad, he was a real keeper. 

We decided to call it quits and headed back to our cars.  She believes she’s in the same parking garage as me.  We get to the parking garage and she doesn’t see her car.  She figures she must be back at the other one we passed.  She wasn’t drunk, but a was a little nervous leaving her because I had a gut feeling her car wasn’t there either.  I made her promise to text me when she got to her car.

I left.  Drove all the way home and still didn’t have a text.  So, I texted her to find out where she was.  She still didn’t know where her car was.  Oh, man.  Since she was all turned around on the meeting point I figured she did the same thing with her car.  I told her to check one block up in the other direction.  We hung up.  About a half an hour later she called back and finally found her car.

Discovering these little qualities about my wingwoman was a great find.  She’s a wonderful conversationalist, entertaining, directionless, and if we ever hit the circus she will most likely lose the “guess my age” game.  And with all of that factored in, I am now even more confident that Bartin’s name is actually Martin.

  

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4 Comments »

  1. Fishy Said:

    Fun post as always. Am loving this new direction.

  2. Man-shopper Said:

    Hahaha I am looking forward to more stories about the kind “winners” that you and your wingwoman met on this first adventure!

  3. I’m addicted to your stories.


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