"It's a jungle out there!"

I am finally taking a break from obsessively looking for my Christmas shoes online*, to finally, finally write about my annual weekend in Boston with B. We had a great time shopping (Ann Taylor Loft Curvy Skinny jeans are made by the Lord himself), eating and, yes of course, drinking. This year we were much smarter about our choice of venue, although B tried to take me to some romantic tapas bar where they were sure to think we were middle-aged lesbian lovers on date night. We wound up at Towne Stove and Spirits, a new place touting two different dining levels and three bars, one open to the riff-raff not dining there, and two exclusively for diners, which allowed us to act all hoity-toity upon arrival, sweeping up the stairs to drink in style, then clattering drunkenly down said stairs after dinner to people watch, rather than hauling our asses half-way across Beantown and winding up at The World's Saddest Gay Bar.

Another great facet of frequenting a pricier establishment, is it severely limits the number of twenty-three year olds in attendance. Not that I have anything against the young 'uns other than their obsessive checking of digital devices - seriously, I am in the middle of a sentence, you can't wait five minutes to read that text? - but I don't need any additional reminders of how old I am or for anyone in a Red Sox cap to think I'm a cougar** looking for some action. Instead, we were faced with a bit of a lonely hearts situation that was at once validating and depressing. Everywhere we looked we saw women in their late twenties and early thirties, dressed to the nines, hoping for someone, anyone, to notice them.

As an anthrpological study, the bar scene is fascinating, full of nuance and ritual. B and I scored some prime seats and were able to watch some poor bachelor try to infiltrate a table of ladies, of whom the most attractive had strategically placed herself closest to the window, and furthest from the crowd, while his buddy, The World's Worst Wingman***, wearing a French cuff shirt, blech, completely ignored the women and tapped away on his Blackberry. At least there's technology to fall back on when you don't want to get stuck taking a grenade I suppose. We watched scantily clad women (newsflash: shorts and lace tights are JUST A NO after your mid-twenties no matter how great your body) get all the attention, while, adorable, appropriately attired women (read:not dressed like hookers), who would come into their own around age thirty-three, made awkward chit chat with their girlfriends. It was just awful and made me send H a thousand text messages telling him how lucky I am to have him.

How do people survive this every single weekend? I think I might slit my wrists having to doll myself up each Saturday to be judged like a piece of meat. And I know, there are other ways for people to meet, but as a single American under the age of forty, gay or straight, it's pretty much part of the mating ritual to go to a bar on Saturday night looking for love, whether it's going to a dive in Brooklyn, dressed in your finest hoodie, to drink Pabst out of a can, or to Bahama Mama's, in Hoboken, wearing a miniskirt to down a few kamikaze shots. It's the modern equivalent of the watering hole, where the dominant males, and females, search out mates. And then what happens if you hit it off? Do you go home with the guy? Drunkenly make a date for later in the week? It's all so complicated!

B and I wondered if it was just our distance from this situation that made us so uncomfortable for the people living it. Perhaps they were all enjoying themselves, as we were, just happy to be out and having a few drinks. B returned from the restroom with hard evidence to the contrary. While waiting in line****, she ran into a thirty-something woman we had been mercilessly mocking for her bad halter top, calling her Courtney Cox, , and after complimenting B on her top said, "Whew! It's a jungle out there tonight!"

At the late hour of midnight, B and I had had enough and stumbled onto the street, hailed a cab and spent the car ride back to the hotel feeling glad our time in the wild was over. For those of you still out there, you will make it through this, and for all your efforts, probably wind up meeting your husband/wife at CVS in line for saline. Godspeed.

*Note to H: If you really want to be my Mr. Big, you will call Zappos to see when those Blahnik knock-offs are cmonig in. Jeweled, royal blue, satin pumps will not buy themselves.
**PS - I have decided the term cougar was invented solely by young men trying to deal with their own discomfort about wanting to screw a woman who could be their mother. Same with the term "homo".
***We talked to them later in the night and, after learning what my beloved does for a living, D-bag spent the entire conversation tutoring me on H's industry, to the point I had to ask him, "Are you seriously trying to teach me about this?"
****What the hell takes women so long? Tuck and primp once you're out of the stall, damn it!