There is a reason you’re not talking to that girl down the bar. It has nothing to do with how you’re dressed or what you look like and everything to do with the attitude that you walked in with. Two hours ago while you were getting dressed, so was the girl down the bar. You both had similar thoughts about what this night could entail and what it will entail.
A record by Tame Impala pulsates through the Bluetooth speaker in your bathroom. You’re gelling your hair. You’re looking in the mirror at the outfit you’ve chosen and wonder if it’s too bland for a night out drinking beers with your buddies.
It isn’t, and getting dressed again would be far too much work. You don’t know the name of the song that is playing, but you can tell it’s Tame Impala from the lead singer’s voice, plus the Discover Weekly playlist on Spotify has been crushing it lately so you let it play. You throw your coat on and head into the living room where the friends you’ll be frequenting bars with for the night await. Two light beers, a line of crushed up Adderall, and one off-color joke about potted plants in Harvey Weinstein’s home and you’re out the door, with nothing but getting drunk on the mind.
Across town, the girl down the bar is also getting ready. Blouses, skirts, and all manner of pants (velvet, leather, and denim) are strewn haphazardly on the floor in front of the floor length mirror in the bedroom turned backstage changing room. The mirror inside her bedroom is a stage. Her own personal runway where the biggest critic is herself.
She’s in panties and a bra both purchased from a sale bin at Victoria’s Secret. They’re not her “I’m going out to get laid, tonight” lingerie set, more like the “I’m getting one drink with my annoying friend from work and then hopefully headed home” set.
“Teach Me How To Dougie” by the long forgotten Cali Swag District is inexplicably playing from her open laptop perched on her bed. She has no idea how this song got to be playing, but she doesn’t necessarily hate it. She leaves it, and it is during the second verse of Dougie that she finally settles on a brown corduroy skirt and a white turtleneck with no bra.
Both parties arrive at the bar within ten minutes of each other. You’re probably sitting at a high top with a bucket of Coors Light in front of you. “I’d throw up if I went up and talked to that girl. So intimidating,” you relay to your friends as you all stare down the girl in the corduroy skirt.
Over at the bar, corduroy skirt and work friend are sipping vodka-sodas completely oblivious to the rabid pack of wolves with a bucket of beer in front of them. Work friend hates men. Corduroy skirt, on the other hand, enjoys their company. She’s flattered when a stranger approaches her at the bar and asks for her number and even finds it mildly amusing when she’s catcalled by a construction worker on the street. She’s hot, she knows it, and she’d actually prefer it if men ogled her. She likes the attention.
You’re not going to talk to her, though, are you? In theory, all it would take is five minutes. Your buddies will still be at the table when you get back. You can talk to them anytime. A “Hi, my name is so and so and I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me sometime?” is all you need to say.
Maybe corduroy skirt says, “Hell, no.” Maybe she throws that vodka-soda in your face. But maybe, just maybe she’ll say yes. And then you get her number, she blushes as you walk away and you’re free for the rest of the night to do whatever you want.
Is there a chance that you’ll throw up upon talking to her because of how beautiful she is? Yeah, I guess in theory that’s possible. But she’s not Emily Ratajkowski and your stomach doesn’t turn that easily. You were exaggerating when you told your friends that little quip.
There’s a reason you’re not talking to that girl down the bar. It has nothing to do with how you’re dressed or what you look like and everything to do with the attitude that you walked in with. “Shooters shoot” is a played out phrase. Enough with that line. Just go talk to her while you have the chance because girls in corduroy skirts don’t stay single forever. .
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