J and I went to Bennigan’s last Saturday for the hell of it. It was a long night of indecision, typical of these parts, pulling into drive-thru’s, pulling out, walking into restaurants, walking out, until we reach the “Bennigan’s, Bennigan’s? We haven’t been there in forever” stage of the night.
Unsurprisingly, since it’s right across from the campus, it was drunk frat-boy night. Now, a couple weeks ago I had a weak moment that included a bad choice in company combined with a bad choice of locale and ended up drinking at Bennigan’s. It’s one of those place that you know you’ve hit some sort of bottom, even if it’s just the salted bottom of an overpriced margarita, if you find yourself going there to get drunk. It’s not a proper bar and grown men should not link arms and sing Red Hot Chili Peppers together and still try to be “on the prowl.” But I think I’m digressing.
This time, with good company and in a booth instead of attached to the bar, I sit with J commenting on the ethnographic study we’re engaging in. He ruminates about the gaggle of similar woman, “I’d go for the quiet looking one at the end.” I look over, see the girl he’s talking about. She has a small, quaint face shaded with a hint of character and she’s sitting at the end of the table with tube top wearing, bleach blonds with much coarser facial features. They cackle.
I feel uncharitable, “She’s the girl the others bring to make themselves feel better.”
Earlier in the day we had just finished Scarface and J was blown away [pun only slighted intended] by Tony’s declaration of love to Elvira.
Anyway what I came up here to tell you is that…uh… I like you. I think you’re terrific. I known this the first time I seen you. You belong to me. We’re tigers. The two of us…I want you to marry me and be the mother of my children.
“That works?!” He yelped.
“It’s a movie.”
“That works in a movie?!”
So when J watches as a pastel, popped-collared, frat boy who got the stereotype memo approaches the group and we can hear him say, “Y’all are sitting over here and us guys are sitting over there…what gives? Hi, I’m Kyle”, J about jumps the roof.
“What the hell!”
“That, how the hell does that work?”
“Um, let’s remember the type of girls we’re observing here.”
“…I need to move to different city to be able act like that.”
I sigh, “Do you really want that? Where has that been? Honestly.”
He’s frustrated, “I don’t I care anymore.”
“Pfft, come on, I’d leave and you’d get swarmed with guys.”
“I’m entirely not what they’re looking for. Besides, I have a T-shirt on, I’m way overdressed.”
We continue eating and he leaves to the rest room. Suddenly I have one large man looming over my table as I’m texting. I look up.
“Are you two on a date?” He asks. He’s not quite frat, long chin beard, full-framed, bald head with an eyebrow piercing. He sways.
“Well, my group saw you texting and him texting and we figured we were watching the worst date we had ever seen happen. I came to rescue you.”
Shut. Up. “Oh, well. Huh,” I reply noncommittally. He slides into the booth across from me, “Such an attractive girl shouldn’t be having such a bad time.”
‘Not happening, no way,’ I think. “Well I appreciate the compliment…”
Suddenly, another man appears next to me, sliding into my side of the booth.
“Hi! I’m TJ.”
I have been swarmed. I’m waiting for Ashton Kutcher. The two continue to chat me up until J comes back, struck a couple feet away, tilting his head, a confused half smile on his face. They scatter like moths. “You jinxed me,” I wagged my finger.
I don’t deal well with being “hit on”. I deal even less well with compliments. Most days I feel well in the idea that I think I only hit a couple twigs of the Ugly Tree coming down, as I see that others have much harder branch marks to deal with. Still, this does not make me feel deserving of a lot of the compliments I’ve gotten.
I got yelled at by a friend’s mother during a photo shoot at my senior prom. [Yes…a photo shoot…*sigh*] She told me I looked so darn pretty in this horribly saccharine voice that I just shrugged and said, “Sure.” She yelled, “You get a compliment like that, you smile and say Thank You missy.”
I haven’t improved. A couple of years ago, during my semi-boyfriend era, I was in a parking lot with before-mentioned Quasi BF. It was a beautiful sunset. The air was crisp and clear and he had just walked me to my car. I opened my car door, felt the breeze stepped onto the frame of the door to catch more of the air. I heard a gasp and looked down to see him staring up at me, eyes aglow, “You’re so incredibly beautiful.”
I think I called him a retard. Or punched his arm. Something very, very mature.