Empty Bar Stool

It makes me chuckle slightly when people ask:

“Did you get anyone’s number?”
“Did anyone hit on you?”
“Did you go home with anyone?”

bar-463476_640
Photo by: Rondell Melling

No. No, I didn’t. No, it’s never happened. No, never.* And the more that people ask me, the more I start to wonder:

“Well, what’s wrong with me?”

It’s not that I don’t realize someone is hitting on me, because no one even talks to me. Every time I go to a bar or a club or anywhere really, alone or with a group, I’m never approached. Never gotten a drink sent to me. Never offered a dance. Maybe the occasional glance, but never any follow up. So I just sit there, next to an empty bar stool, and mind my own business.

Is it my looks? Is something wrong with my hair? Am I not dressed well enough? Did I dress up too much, even though it’s laundry day? Is it some resting bitch face I’m unaware of? Do I have DAMAGED or CRAZY or TOO FAB tattooed across my forehead? Is there a Post-It on my back telling everyone to stay the hell away from me?

I’ve been told I’m intimidating. More than once. But how? I just stand there, innocently keeping to myself because of the anxiety I’m filled with when I have to talk to strangers. When I’m in a situation I’m not comfortable in. When I’m left alone. Standing awkwardly by the wall, drink in hand, until my friend comes back.

And because of said anxiety, I can never bring myself to approach anyone. How do I break the ice? What do I say? And what do I say after that?  How do I start walking toward someone without quickly changing direction and heading toward the bathroom to avoid any confrontation. How do I NOT bring up my cat immediately?

If you know me, you’re probably rolling your eyes by now. You’re probably thinking about how friendly I am. How easy I am to talk to. How funny I am. How I, somehow, light up the whole room. But that takes a lot of work on my part. It’s exhausting, frankly. I have to mentally prepare myself for large groups. I need to plan ahead for it. I can’t do it on the fly. I can’t suddenly decide to go out when I’ve been home for hours with no pants on. And I most certainly can’t fend my way through a large group alone. And more than likely, a few hours in, I’m spent. I need to go home. I need to recharge. I need to be alone with my cat and my thoughts, away from small talk and pointless conversation, or lack of. Which is why you won’t find me out at bars or clubs often.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I really am the problem.
Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the problem.

Guess we’ll never know.

Until next time,
That Guy

 

*Well, there was this one time, but that’s a heartbreakingly drunken tale for another day.

 

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