Saturday burned heavy and humid in Los Angeles, too murky for the beach but too hot for anything productive. The perfect day for a lazy morning followed by a late night.
I bought a new salsa dress that flipped about my knees when I walked, but was a bit conservative for the general clubbing crowd. I worried about that for the five minutes it took before I captured some attention. According to my friend, my date for the evening made a dash towards me the moment he caught site of the bright pink dress. After one dance, he announced I would be with him for the evening. There are some things that even the most liberated of females won't regret, and being claimed for an evening is one of them.
We danced for about 2 hours before I sent him off to buy me a diet Coke. He had been such a cordial date thus far - concerned about my friend, not drinking too much around us, and not trying anything inappropriate. We chatted for several minutes as I tested my diet Coke, which was flat, as soda always is in a bar. (Could someone who drinks tell me if this is just oversight by the bars or does it improve something in alcoholic beverages to have flat soda?)
My friend stood a respectful distance away to give us the necessary privacy. We were having fun and I was contemplating how to respond to the inevitable request for my phone number. He was definitely a candidate - or so I thought before the following conversation.
My date and my friend were joking about fake ID's. This led to the inevitable discussion about age. Sometimes I forget how much younger I can look when I dress casually, so it hadn't occurred to me to be concerned. My date asked me to guess his age and I suggested 25. He laughed and my friend blurted out, "Oh my gosh! Are you even old enough to drink?" His whisper magically transformed the bar from salsa club to 1960s drug den as Elvis Crespo was replaced by Paul Simon's clear tenor singing, "And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson..."
I must have gone several degrees below absolute zero because my date immediately realized that he had blown his chance of getting any action that night. I tried to stutter out polite conversation before announcing that I had grown tired. He pouted as we danced one final song, even though I let him take more liberties than I should. Unfortunately, all I could think was that this guy was younger than my baby brother. In the end, I gave him a lecture on drinking and encouraged him to pursue his education. He showed us to the door, as polite as ever, but looking a bit like a rejected puppy.
Despite the aborted romance, the evening had its desired impact. I was finally able to sit through an entire conversation with past crush without one moment's wishfulness. After all, I've become a sexy, older woman. The world is my oyster, baby, why waste it on regret?
4 comments:
dress sounds fabulous. never get rid of it.
also, have to comment on your annonymous offended person...fuck them. seriously. you have every right to have your own opinion. they don't have to agree. they don't have to read. and he/she is a fuck for posting and not leaving a name anywhere. goddamn coward. self-righteous asshole.
Thanks, Jasmine. I think I'm finally getting over it - the first rejection is always the hardest, but I'll be fine.
Yay pink flippy dresses and impressionable young men! Boo nasty commenters! Yay dancing!
Re soda: I think it's because soda in bars generally comes from those crappy machines, not actual fizz-preserving cans or bottles. It's a problem. Definitely doesn't do anything to improve a Cuba Libre.
Hmm. Was resolved not to send nasty complaint letter when I thought it had some benefit to drinkers of the world. Must now compose in flamboyant language appropriate for club ownership.
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