Behold the Mating Ritual

If you haven't noticed (or have a serious Edward Scissorhands thing going on) it's finally spring. After months of trudging through snow and slush and God knows what (seriously, in NYC you never know what you're stepping in), it's warm and the sidewalks are mostly dry... unless you happen to get spat at. Which has happened to me. Multiple times. I no longer have to sleep in three layers of sweatshirt because of the draft by my bed. The city is teeming with people who have clearly been planning their kick-ass summer outfits for, well, ALL of winter. And frankly, they're impressing me.

In short: I'm 21, it's warm, and life is fun again.

But a little bit weird, too. Now that it's legal for me to go out on the town and enjoy the [expensive] nightlife this city has to offer, I'm finding that I actually AM... enjoying it. Weird, right? Typically, I'm the kind of girl whose comfortable bed starts to call to her at around 1 a.m. regardless of how fun the party is. But recently a little voice inside me has been saying "Hey, why not go out and have a beer and RELAX?" I mean, I've been working out a lot (all part of Operation: Hot Weather, Hot Bod)... why shouldn't I strut my stuff a little bit?

Except as much as I want to have fun, experiencing nightlife can often lead to uncomfortable situations. Which brings me to the whole "Mating Ritual" aspect of this post, because I have qualms with bars and what exactly one is supposed to DO at them. Last Saturday night I went out with a few friends and our first stop was a bar near Union Square. It was one of those wait-in-a-line, yell-over-music, $8-dollar-drink bars, which are generally not my forte. Some guy who smelled like stale beer and had a super cute (read: not cute) Neo-Nazi hairdo tried to chat me up until I made it pretty clear I didn't think he was worth all the yelling (What? I have to protect my vocal folds... or "The Folds," as I affectionately call them.) But still, the time was well spent, because I always find bars fascinating as case studies in human nature. Young, hormonal, uninhibited drunk people are just a science experiment waiting to happen. It's like watching reality television. Live. With 3-D glasses and Scratch N' Sniff.

Yet my own experience in bars is pretty repetitive and uninteresting. I sip a drink and look around and adjust my outfit while I talk to my girl friends until, at some point, some guys either build up the courage (or drink until they're courageous enough) to come over and talk to us. Which, I'm warning you, is a bad idea. Moral of the Story: I should just invest in a sign that says "You're Better Off Talking to That Drunk Floozy Over There" with an arrow pointing toward someone with a few more drinks in their system and lower self-worth.

That's not to say I'm some prize catch or pick of the litter, because I don't consider myself either of those strange animal metaphors. I just can't be won over at a bar. Whether you say "I'm an investment banker" or "I live with my parents," you've already bombed because I discount bar meetings right off the bat. Even though Mr. American History X at Union Square gained points after giving me an exuberant high five for my patronage of the Yankees, he was unknowingly up against impossible odds. (Important Update: We discussed the ridiculous amount of home runs hit in the new Yankee Stadium. Sports Knowledge!) No matter how much you coax me to talk, Anonymous Bar Man, I am just waiting for you to walk away and give up on me so I can go back to my rowdy girl chat that is far more interesting than anything you can tell me about your dead end life. 

Sorry, that sounds harsh. And I guess it IS a little harsh. But those Bar Men can certainly make things even worse for themselves. Example: if you ask me to play a game of pool with you, like some guys did at a beer garden the other night, you better be good at it. Because if your pool game is equivalent to mine (Read: inbred orangutans without fingers could play better than I do) you're going to look neither confident, nor masculine. Thus: Fail. Another tip: If you're drunk enough to talk to me, you probably don't smell too nice. Fresh beer breath on someone whose company you enjoy is harmless. Stale beer breath on a staggering stranger is not. Curse my excellent sense of smell, but it's the truth.

I think a lot of people would tell me to get off my high horse - that the guys who approach me in bars aren't looking to Woo Me (hah, get it?) but instead are betting on the off chance that I'm as drunk as they are and might be easy. Which is cool, I get that. I also understand that people go to bars just because they like to talk to new people, and maybe even flirt a little bit. But seriously... what do you know of me so far, Cupcake Lovers? I like Jeopardy. I don't know how to flirt. I've been hung up on one guy for, like, forever. I like arts and crafts and I use "What's your middle name" as my pick-up line. Which of those things DOESN'T scream "Destined to be a cat lady scrapbooker"?

Point is, I'm learning to assimilate and adapt. I'm determined to memorize the steps to this elaborate, complicated mating dance. Who cares if I see myself as more of a termite, or a fox? (Note: those are two animals that mate for life. I think I'm going to go with fox over termite, for obvious reasons. Namely, wood tastes bad.) Maybe I'll even start resisting the urge to roll my eyes immediately when someone approaches me in a bar and says "Hey, I'm [Insert Generic, Unattractive Name here]. Where are you from?" Maybe instead of one word answers - "Uhh, Connecticut." - I'll actually be talkative. Imagine that.

We'll see. It's more likely that the termite in me will hinder my attempt at enjoying bar life. Which is fine. Plan B is to join a gym so that I can accomplish Operation: Hot Weather, Hot Bod while scanning the treadmills for potential soul mates. And I assure you, treadmill flirting is a very complex mating ritual unto itself.