I don’t always “get” men. I mean, I’m usually pretty darn good at reading people and tend to have more guy friends than girl friends, but sometimes I’m caught completely off guard.
Last night after a particularly brutal 20 mile ride, hubs and I decided we wanted to go to a local sports bar to watch the Cards game. One, because there is more beer there than I have at my house. But quite honestly it was more because two, if we tried to do it at home I would be passed out on the couch and snoring so loudly he couldn’t hear the tv by 10 p.m.
The ride was done at 7:30 and the game started at 8, so I raced home, took a 2 minute shower in which I literally washed my arm pits and lady bits, and scrubbed the bugs and dirt off my legs. I spent a whopping 5 minutes finishing the job, which including drying time, running a brush through my hair, and pulling on my old comfy jeans and a plan black tank top. I threw on some flip flops and was out the door, meeting my man just in time for the first pitch.
For anyone who doesn’t follow baseball, last night was a pretty important game for the Cards. They needed to win it to advance in the playoffs, and were playing at home after rallying on the road. Having lived in St. Louis for several years and through two World Series wins, these guys are my team.
As we’ve already established, I’m pretty vocal. When watching sports, I’m even more so. I was totally the girl in the bar yelling at the tv, cheering loudly when they got a run and calling the ump some not so amazing names if he made a bad call.
Seriously, if I were the other 20 guys in the bar, I would have been irritated as hell with me. It wasn’t even as if I was hoping that my overwhelming hotness would get me a free pass, I just didn’t give a damn.
So imagine my surprise when hubs excuses himself for a pee break and not one, not two, but THREE different guys approached me to chat me up. One was even blatant enough with his flirting (“uh so, is that guy like, your boyfriend? Does he appreciate you?”) that even I realized what was going on.
Seriously? What. the. hell?
I almost told hubs about it when he came back, but decided I was having a lot of fun and there was no reason for bloodshed in the bar. Besides, I was a big girl and could take care of myself. I shot the sleezy one down so hard that he may have had to go cry in a corner for a moment. Double suck for him because his team, the Pirates, lost.
Today I just sort of find myself flabbergasted. Maybe I should start giving dating advice? Step one, wait until you’re nearly 30 and be sure to be a little overweight. Step two, look like a hot mess. If you’re picking what just might be bugs out of your nose and teeth, all the better. Make up and deodorant are not only not required, but frowned upon. Step three, be as obnoxious as possible. Step four, drink beer. Not only does it aid with step three, but it gives you really impressive wonder burps that you may just earn you a round of applause. Step five, show absolutely no interest in anyone around you.
There ya go. The recipe for success in picking up a man in a sports bar. Or at least, that’s how it worked for me.
Sometimes dudes are just weird, kittens. Just plain weird.