This Is Not A Heart

It might be another rainy Friday nite, but we are unhindered by the necessity of umbrellas. The most amazing people I know are my friends and Friday nite is our chance to be together again. We waited all week, working, studying, dealing with goals, ambitions, and obligations, dreaming of Friday. Now here it is. We are at the bar, drinking beer, taking shots of whiskey, and looking around at everyone else. We judge everything about them–their friends, their shoes, their hair, and their drink of choice. The bottom line is, who’s hot?

“Point him out to me, but not with your finger.”

“12 o’clock, right behind you, he’s drinking a Tecate; he’s wearing a plaid shirt.”

“I don’t see him.”

“He just scratched his head.”

“Oh, that guy. I think he lives with this guy John that Laura slept with.”

It’s 2010, and we ladies still won’t make the first move. I’m sorry, boys. The times may be changing; I might put out on the first date, but I can’t approach a stone fox when I see him. Maybe I’m falling behind the times, but I know I’m not alone. Countless women shave their legs on Friday nites, put on a pair of heels, and have too much to drink. It is a feminine ritual. We are waiting, anticipating, quite often ignoring eligible bachelors, and somehow hoping that the man of our dreams (or someone really attractive) is going to buy our next drink (or sit/stand next to us). This is our fantasy world, and we’re sticking to it. And then maybe after he’s asked if I come here often, we’ll discuss what we do M-F, where we’re from, how we got here, something witty, something anecdotal, something silly, and then maybe we’ll makeout or I’ll give him my number. Or maybe not.