Prospects: 0, Wine: 5
I was never lucky with boys. But on this night, this Saturday evening, 5 girlfriends and I were heading to a club 45 minutes from home. Surely, this would be my chance; the chance to meet boys with sensibilities for the witty friend. Boys that didn’t remember your grade school self in cat-eye glasses and ugly hand-me-down bell bottoms. So, we six girls with our freshly curled hair and colored lips, loaded into Shannon’s car and headed, map in hand, to our Mecca.
There were strobe lights, hordes of good looking people and pitchers of cheap wine. Pitchers of wine! Truly a Mecca for a 23 year old in the 80s. Oh yes, this would be the turning point for me and my “game”.
Fast forward to three hours later. I’m sitting alone at a high table, heels on the lower rung, head leaning on hand. I pushed the several empty pitchers out of the way and poured myself another glass of sour-tasting white wine. My friends waved from the dance floor wrapped up with the boys with whom they have been slow-dancing, fast-dancing and making out for two point three hours. Ok, maybe my bitter memory is exaggerating; maybe it was just two hours. Two wine-packed surly hours. And the ride home would seem even longer.
And so it goes. Sometimes the journey to Mecca is fruitful for some. Sometimes your journey to Mecca should be experienced in solitude. And sometimes the journey to and from Mecca is accompanied by wine sweats.