Here's the Thing

(Image found at Atelier Lydia)

We went out for happy hour tonight--Molly, Celia, Lisa Marie and I--and we talked for half the night about work--using code names and deconstructing people based on personal experience; attempting to understand how we might succeed in life without being total bitches.

There were frat boys everywhere. We didn't speak to them, though we did lust after the waiter. I don't know how to pick up boys. I don't know if I want to know how to pick up boys. I look around and think, No, not you, not you, maybe you, but probably not and why waste the energy? In some ways, it would be easier if we lived in a culture where your mate was picked for you from birth. So fine, you marry this guy with a gigantic mole on his face, and maybe he's too short, but he also loves his mother and is good with kids so whatever, you can deal with it. You can marry this person and then move on to figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life. That would be preferable, actually, to standing in a bar, wearing lip gloss, smiling at men in oxford shirts who may or may not already have girlfriends, trying to think of what you might have to offer of interest, wondering if maybe there's something you could say that would reveal who you are, truly, without showing too many flaws.

After talking about work for awhile, I asked this question that Hasana has asked before, with an ammendment, What's the worst thing you've ever done (under the age of 10). Because if you go over that age, things can get sticky and black. I confessed my guilt as an 8 year old walking in on Mrs.McNally crying at her kitchen table. I asked her what was wrong. She said, My sister just died. I said, AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! The most inappropriate reaction ever, as if she had told me that she had missed the bus. Celia told about seeing a horrible accident and trying to make light of it with her mom, saying, Look at the way the sheets are blowing! And her mom responding negatively, stop, that's inappropriate, be serious, don't try to make me feel better!Later, on the way to Broad Street, Lisa Marie, told me about how when she was little, she had a gerbil and she put it into one of those plastic balls and forget about it and then the next time she saw the gerbil, it had died. My response was, No 8 year old should be solely in charge of anything--not an animal, not a plant, and certainly not a parent.

Comments

Ben said…
Not sure how to approach men in oxford shirts? This would have been the perfect time for your Detective Benson routine.
Aimee said…
You mean the routine where I go over to one of them and tell him I'm conducting a strip search of all those wearing Tommy Hillfiger? Would that work? Or would the night become like that scene in The Accused?
Liz said…
How about when you go over and pretend to be writing an article for the City Paper? That was fun...we should do that again.
Aimee said…
Did we do that? I forgot--but what a great idea! What topic did we pretend to be writing about?

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