That's Not My Jacket

If you've just run across this blog, check out my first post, it might explain this a bit more.

I get excited around people. Because of this, I don't need drugs or to get completely bonkers wasted. I can cruise through most of the night on a solid beer high and make it through till quite late. I've just always kind of been that way. Never the sloppy drunk, but always ready to roll.

But for some odd reason this time around of being single I am periodically getting completely plastered.

I don't think you could ask any of my ex girlfriends if they've ever seen me really smashed more than once or twice through our entire relationship, yet over the last few months I have done this to myself multiple times.

Near the beginning of my breakup I had decided to move out of the former shared accommodation that I had with my ex. The apartment was nice but because of the circumstances it had been reduced to the "cave of doom" in my fragile mind. A change was needed, and it just so happened that a business partner had a brand new shiny investment property that was just completed, and with the economic Armageddon that the real estate market had been suffering through, it was apparent that he would have to eat the cost of the mortgage for a lot longer than anticipated. Perfect! I'll move in, we can cover the mortgage and I can escape any painful memories of my former relationship!

So I move in....and the place sells in a week. Crap.

So now I'm homeless. Well not exactly. I'm fortunate enough to have some options, and was put up by some friends in a giant house is a posh neighborhood, and also had the luxury of a close friend who lives right in the city for any late night excursions I might find myself embarking on.

This one particular occasion I was frequenting an establishment that I end up quite often on Saturday nights. A safe place that is often wrought with drunken ass dancing and Jaegermeister shots. This night was no different, and I ended up being way past my "Beer drunk cruise level of drunkenness".

And as my night wound down and I decided I needed to pull the chute, I grabbed my jacket and headed into a cab. Though I was beyond my normal, very comfortable level of beer-infused intoxication, I'd had a great night and was off to the other side of town to pass out at my friends.

Then my first problem occurred; as I tried to slip on my jacket in the back of the cab, it wouldn't go on. Now, I was drunk enough to not understand why my jacket wouldn't fit, but not too drunk to look at it and recognize it as a very similar black peacoat, pretty much identical to mine. Now my memory is obviously quite fuzzy, but I do remember repeatedly attempting to slip this jacket over my shoulders with absolutely no luck whatsoever.

I didn't figure it out until I was in front of my friends apartment that this wasn't my jacket. In fact, it was a very, very small version of my jacket. As I buzzed up and walked into the apartment, it occurred to me that not only was this not my jacket, but my keys, credit cards, ID, you name it was actually in my jacket, and the pockets of this one only contained a cell phone and a pack of smokes.

I just stood there in the living room of my friends pad, as him and his buddy - who were clearly both at least as drunk as I was - just stared at me as I explained what was going on. They tried the phone....but who do you call at 3:00 in the morning from a phonebook of random names? When you're drunk?

Then all of a sudden I just stopped and told them; "I have to go back".

I I know I was quite trashed, but I distinctly remember getting this weird panic-y feeling that I had to bring this jacket back to the bar. So ignoring the protests of my buddy ad his friend, I bolted back out into the blustery winter rain.

I should note that even though the venue was in the city, it was still a solid 25 minute walk from the apartment, and had been closed for 45 minutes, and I had no wallet or money to take a taxi.So with my logic, and drunken reasoning, I just started to run. In the middle of the night, in torrential rain, with no jacket on, just a tiny peacoat in one hand and a mystery cell phone in the other.

I ran the whole damn way there.

And as I rounded the final corner before arriving, I actually began thinking about what the hell I was going to do when I got there. I mean the place was closed, and though people are usually inside cashing out and having a nitecap, the actual patrons had been ushered out the door over an hour ago.

As I ran up the front door, there was a group of people still standing there, as I'm about to go pound on the entrance I see that one of the people in the crowd is a girl...wearing my friggin jacket. I'm so winded and soggy I cant even speak, I just walked up to her and held out her jacket and cell phone like I was seeking penance at a damn confessional.

Her and her friends just looked at me and started shrieking. "It's HIM!"

What they were still doing outside the club this late and how they seemingly recognized me I had no idea, but there they were, and she was wearing my jacket.

So as we returned each other our respective outerwear, I noticed that my pockets were bare. I went from elation to utter disappointment, and though we were all joyously (and drunkedly) talking through the mind grenade that was this overcoat reunion, I had to stop the party to say; "Guys, thanks a ton for not stealing my jacket, but where's all my stuff?"

At that exact moment the doors to the bar opened and a girl walked out, looked right at me, reached in the pocket of her jeans and handed me all my crap. Huh?

Well in my inebriation I hadn't worked out the logic that they'd also had my ID and knew exactly what I looked like. In fact, these wonderful people had already sent me a facebook message letting me know I grabbed the wrong jacket and they had all my stuff.

Needless to say the reunion was joyous, so naturally, instead of hiking back to my buddy's apartment, they hosted me in a very late night condo party in one of their' beautiful homes just around the corner, where I proceeded to become BFF's with my new found jacket-keepers.

Now why I insisted on running through the rain in the middle of the night to a closed nightclub miles away from a warm, cozy bed I will never know. I just know I had to go.

I'm still in touch with a few of these folks, and its always great to see them, But tho it was a great adventure it only leads my to question why I'm so damn lucky in life, but so unlucky in love?

Facestalker

If you've just run across this blog, check out my first post, it might explain this a bit more.

I've always been so intrigued when girl friends of mine tell stories of getting creeped on facebook. 

I mean, its pretty blatant in the actual design of the damn website that it is reserved for "friends" to keep in contact. And even though a "friend" on facebook is the loosest sense of the word, there is still somewhat of an unwritten rule saying "Hey, I KNOW you in some way, let's stay in contact".

I can't for the life of me figure out how dudes would think its cool to just try to add a girl based on a picture they saw on another friends profile. For starters, unless you're in the picture yourself, you are obviously creeping...which is essentially what facebook is for, but as long as we all continue to do it without openly talking about it, it can remain our dirty little secret. All of ours.

Secondly,  reaching out and contacting somebody without actually "knowing" them is desperate and weird on a whole different level, and takes a whole lot of self UN-awareness to go through with it. I mean there are legit reasons sometimes, but I hear stories all the time where random people just ask to be a friend. Boggles my little mind it does.

That being said. It only is weird for boys, because I got facestalked by a girl. And. It. Was. Awesome. One of the most flattering things that has ever happened to me. The story goes like this:

My business partner and myself were attending an industry event at a reasonably posh lounge. One of the typical schmooze-fests that tech industry folk love to throw together. Now I'm as social a guy as any, but meeting people so unnaturally makes my skin crawl. There's nothing organic or natural about the interactions at these things. I like to meet people, not their business representatives. Opening a conversation with "What do you do?" and handing a person a card is the social equivalent of a coffee vending machine.

So as I slog through this event, I spend most of the time sidled up to the bar minding my own, making polite conversation with the bartending staff. I feel comfortable doing that most times because I can often identify with the sheer boredom or exhaustion or half-assed attempts to remain charismatic that comes with the job.

Now I don't remember being extraordinarily funny or witty or anything, but I'd like to believe that I was a refreshing distraction from the revolving door of "I'm so awesome" business professionals barking their martini orders at the staff. I did speak a tad more with one of the ladies behind the bar, who - since I was drinking water - opted to make me a special flavor and fruit filled non-alcoholic beverage. I thought that was quite nice. But that's it. 

As the event ended, I politely said my goodbyes and hit the ol' dusty road.

The next morning I get a facebook message with the subject line: "We didnt exchange numbers..."

HMMMMMMM....?????

The message body continued..."So I had to resort to finding you via facebook, which feels creepy and exciting at the same time."

I check the person who sent it, I don't recognize the name. I race through the profile pictures...and then it hits me...special flavor and fruit filled non-alcoholic beverage girl!

Well, well... I chortled as I stroke my beard...

And I immediately start thinking...is this creepy? Like how did she know how to find me? Did I say my last name? No way she remembered. Did I mention where I work? Should I be scared of this person?

Then I realized, if this was a dude doing this to a girl....that's a 99 on the creep-o-meter...but a girl doing it to a boy? An attractive girl? RAD!

She suggested I call, ummm...fuck ya.

Aaaand she turned out to be pretty awesome, if not somewhat eccentric, but in a totally awesome kind of way. Even showed up with a bottle of bubbly, what girl does that?

The kind that has the cojones to reach out to a random dude on facebook and drop them a line. Fucking fearless.

Man I'm glad she wasn't a psycho. (whew)

Please...Don't Ever Be This Guy

 If you've just run across this blog, check out my first post, it might explain this a bit more.

I always mention that I spent most of my young adult years in the hospitality industry and continue to have many friends and even the odd business opportunity in the "industry".

Because of this I have pretty good perspective into both worlds, the one where you work/live/party, and the other where you are just a purveyor of the services provided.

What I have found by speaking to friends who have never been in the industry, is that they have an odd perception of what its like, and more importantly how they are viewed as just customers.

It had been years since I'd actually worked at a bar or club by the time I became single, and I'll have to say I was a tad rusty as I hung out with more and more friends that I didn't have the chance to when I was all hitched and stuff. And during this "transition" period, one event transpired that illustrated how much of an outsider I had become.

The benefit of having amigo's in the bar industry is that you get an automatic "in" with all of the pleasant looking staff that generally populate most bars and restaurants. Normally picking up bartenders and waitresses is effing hard, they get hit on for a living, but if you can crack the barrier between "dude that comes in all the time" and "so-and-so's buddy" then you can actually get a good shot at hanging out with some of the delightful people that work in these places.

On one occasion I happened to be hitting it off with a pretty young lass who happened to bartend at a friends restaurant. So, arrangements were made to spend an evening watching a game, having some pints and exposing this lovely young lady to the "me and my friends" version of me while she worked. Perfect.

Well, a few pints turned into many many pints, some vodka and some Jack Daniels. I went from Zero to DANCING ON THE BAR TO MICHAEL JACKSON AS A CROWD FORMED OUT ON THE SIDEWALK in about 4 jaegerbombs. 

Yup. I became THAT guy. But it gets worse.

As the night dwindled down and people filed out of the restaurant, the "party" became a few staff hanging around, me, and this nice young lady. Who was not only sober, but trying to clean up her bar to close down.

This is where many of you non-industry gentlemen need to pay close attention. 

Leave. Right then. Unless you have a dated and notarized "you're coming home with me" signed affidavit, you need to bail. 

Why? Well let me tell you what happens next.

Everybody leaves. And you're left there as the guy who nobody reeeally knows, pestering a girl trying to close her bar. You will forever be known as "Oh, that's the guy that was still at the bar at 3 AM last week?"

You do not want to be that guy. Because that guy happens more than you know. And nobody likes that guy. It doesn't matter how nice you are, you will transition from charming dude to a biiiit of a weirdo really, really fast. 

And nothing feels or looks worse than having to get up and leave, by yourself, as the staff watch you exit alone. Drunk.

Here's the truth, it will always be better to be forgotten forever than to be remembered for a minute as "That Guy"

We Got a Runner!

If you've just run across this blog, check out my first post, it might explain this a bit more.

My first REAL "night out" after becoming single was an astonishing eye-opener. I hadn't gone out and put myself "out there" in years. I certainly wasn't looking for a GF but WAS looking for a bit of freaking attention.

For me the most difficult part of a break up was convincing myself that I still had some awesome on the table. Not so much in the  "Do I still got it?" kind of way, but more like the "Oh crap am I a hopeless, lonely, pathetic has-been?" sort of way. 

Very different.

So out I went. Boys night out. Half the guys are married. (What the hell am I doing?) But to my delight, some of the guys had literally never been out like this with me before. So after we crushed 30 gin and tonics (Lost the credit card roulette on that one...kept the bill...ugh) off to the club we were, and as the guys milled about, chatting and drinking some more, what came to be known as the "Secret Weapon" unleashed.

Its a funny thing if you can dance a bit. You not only stand out, but its refreshing to a lot of girls. "Oh, a dude that can ACTUALLY dance a bit? cool!" It also isn't too bad that most drunken dudes look like complete donkey's at the club...so show a bit of rhythm and you end up looking like M.J. to the rest of the place.

And depending on the night, and available stable of better looking guys around, you can actually ATTRACT girls!

I've mentioned, I'm no super model, so having women come up to ME is freaking rad.

An extra side order of awesome to go with the night was the dudes I'm with LOSING their minds as my dance card filled. (Post traumatic break-up syndrome ego boost? Check.)

With my confidence and blood alcohol level at an all time high; I'm dancing, I'm impressing, I'm hammered...one of the boys decides its time to head to an Irish Pub down the street and proceeds to think I'd be the best wing man of the group. So off I go. From dancing super awesome attention time...to Irish freaking pub.

I like to always mention that I am a lucky guy. Especially in friends. I have a group of brothers that are like none other. This is awesome in so many ways, especially that they insist on taking care of me in my new found single-dom. 

Their diagnosis of my condition? He's sad. Why? No girl. Solution? Get him another girl. Simple man-logic. Sincere, though slightly misguided.

Now I'm a polite guy. I genuinely like people. I am rarely rude and tend to find something I like about everybody I meet. 

But on this particular occasion, what was paraded to me by my friend was a line-up of women that...how do I put this...were the only ones left still single at 2 in the morning at an Irish Pub?

I remained polite, but was now quite inebriated, no longer in my little dance utopia surrounded by people who thought I was awesome...and though I was not sure I wanted one, I was clearly not in a position where I was going to even have a good drunken conversation this evening at the least.

And then I saw her. She was small, wearing a floppy paper boy hat, (I'm a sucker for girls in hats) and talking to some dude...but...she was a looker! But dammit, how am I going to even get a chance to talk to her? My mind raced!  Is that her boyfriend? If not do you think she has one? Do I  just immediately ask her? I really want a Big Mac.

And as I stood their gawking like a stalker, my window of opportunity opened, she said something, frustratingly picked up her coat and stormed away from the guy! Eureka! I exclaimed. (ok I didn't, but you get it) I cut her off and attempted to say something witty.

Now I'm normally quite the silver-tongued rapscallion, but at this point in the evening I was a blurred, slurring shell of my normal self. What I said I dont know, but she stopped, and started talking to me. In my drunken state of course I thought I'd NAILED it.

But the fact was, I was dealing with a bit of a pistol on this fine evening. This lil filly was a freaking Firecracker. I don't know if it was her "schtick" when meeting dudes (you know those girls that are kind overly vulgar and extra brash trying to come off a bit more like "one of the guys' in hopes she'll land "one of the guys"?) but she was a bit...annoying?

At this point, being a tad disappointed at how my night had ended up, instead of being my regular, polite self, I responded to her with about the same level of douche-ocity she was brangin' at me.

Now I dont know exactly how the entire conversation went, but I do remember one specific thing that I said to her which immediately ended the conversation...ahem..."I hate your face." Yup. Totally said that. Her reaction though, well that was the kicker.

She reached up,  grabbed the back of my head and starting kissing the hell outta my face. Like I was a drowning victim. Keep in mind that even though I was relishing the attention I was getting this first ever time out, but c'mon, I was  still a tad green behinfd the gills (anybody know what that means?)

It's like having your water wings off for the first time and then some kid pushes you off the high diving board. Exasperatingly terrifying.

So I did what any 30 year old newly single drunkenly confident lad would do. I fucking bolted.

Right out the door of the pub. No thanks. No goodbyes. Just ripped my head out of her makeout death grip and gone. If the door had been locked, you'd have seen my Wile E. Coyote cutout and a trail of smoke down the road.

It was an overwhelming feeling of terror. That was the first mouth that had touched my mouth since the last mouth. And that was the same mouth for 4 and a half years! It was a WEIRD mouth! And it felt like I was cheating on somebody. That was the essence of the moment. I was totally single. Very single. But it felt like I was cheating. And it was nuts.

When I spoke to the friend that had dragged me there later in the week he said I just looked up from my angry little makeout machine with a blank stare, did an about face and went straight out the front door. Like I'd just remembered I left the iron on and needed to race home to make sure my house wasn't on fire.

I do remember two things immediately after while I was walking alone up the street. One, I said to myself; "Welcome to single life. Holy crap." and Two, I went straight to McDonald's and ate a Big Mac.

Welcome to Charm-ageddon - Unleashing my Social Freedom on the Masses

If you've just run across this blog, check out my first post, it might explain this a bit more.

I figured out at an early age that if you're funny, everybody will like you.

Don't be the class clown, be the class comedian. I sometimes think that I might just know what people like to hear, but in my heart I think I actually give a crap. About people. And love to make them feel good.

Put it this way, I couldn't roll up to a group of plasticy night club bottle rats and have any hope of them giving me the time of day in the middle of a loud, crowded night club.

But, put me at a table with the same group, at a party with an hour at my disposal, and they have no chance. Not that I'm going home with any of them, but I'll be contending for BFF status within the hour.

For the better part of four years this wonderful chunk of my personality has been stuffed in a garbage bag, duct taped, chained inside of a trunk and sunk to the bottom of the ocean with Dexter-like anonymity. And when I realized I could still be like that. Well jeeezus...it was on.

Its an interesting feeling when you have unwavering confidence in your abilities. Don't think for one second my ego isn't held in check by numerous painful and humiliating failures...but I think true confidence isn't blind and nonobjective, its knowing that you CAN do something while having enough perspective to realize that sometimes you might not.

This was me when I was corralled from the pits of pseudo depression by my amigo's, and sent out into the big bad world of single-dom.

Like being shot out of an awesomecannon with two six-shooters full of "Fuck-yeah!"

Needless to say, these stories are all as true as they can be while protecting everybody involved. The essence remains intact but they're simply the ramblings of a dude that looks around sometimes and thinks that he is the only one in here.

In reality, I'm just single, struggling and like to meet people. That's it.

One thing I need to mention is that I can dance. Kinda well. I'm not "formally" trained but have a lot of practice. If I'm in a club full of white dudes, I can generally get the "Where the hell did THAT come from!??!" reaction from people. None of my siblings can dance, not sure about my parents, and I am as anglo-saxon as they come...and for some ridiculous reason I can just move.

If there's one single piece of advice I can offer to any Dads that want to give their little dudes a leg up in their future social lives...especially with the opposite sex...drag their assess to a hip hop class. Trust me. You could be ugly, shy, overweight... but if you can shake it, you'll do ok.

Guaranteed.

Many people who have known me in my past know this about me; a couple beers and a good song, and I'm off. One of the most amazing experiences you can have with a person is to dance with them. Like lose yourself dance with somebody. So many of my friends can't relate to this and unfortunately I'm not inviting the dudes over to my pad to show them what its like to grind to a Lucy Pearl song...so they'll never know.

Girls on the other hand, well, the vast majority of girls can shake it...so many of them know this feeling...and really like to find it. Let me explain:

A fresh haircut, a new shirt (T-Shirt time!!) some friends at my apartment pre-drinking, laughing our faces off, go to a lounge, half-cut, appy's,  a few more drinks. Feeling POPPIN' and head out to a club.bar. Its dark and hot and sweaty and you're faded and having an amazing time, feeling good &  looking good and then....then your song comes on. BAM! You're in a goddamn music video.

THATS the feeling I chase. Like a freaking drug.

THAT 3 minutes where you and whoever are with are literally on another planet completely lost in that moment. You can't buy that feeling. Thats is why I started dancing, and thats why you need to learn. Also. Girls really like it.

I have only ever had a relationship with one person that could keep up with me on the dance floor. And I'll tell you, that's a way to keep the spark alive. You've had a long work week, you're grumpy and tired.

Get faded and go dance. Dance your asses off. And if somebody can really feel it with you...holy shit people. That is an attraction you can't fake.

So, this little adventure of mine began with the realization that I haven't danced in over four years.

The girl I was with couldn't dance well, and wasn't keen on me seeking out that type of connection with anybody else. Fair enough. Result; No dancing.

Could I call this a regret? I think a Fuck ya is in order.

Soo...is there a lesson learned here?

Relationships are about compromise, communication and sacrifice, but if somebody is making you sacrifice a fundamental part of your personal identity...shit ain't good. Change it.

I dance now. As much as I can. One of the best parts of being single. I chase those moments and it keeps me going through all of the crap.

They say you should dance like nobody's watching...screw that...put on a frickin show, and sell tickets 

Here:

The Life & Times of a Single Social Butterfly

The most difficult part of being single and over 30 isn't the perpetual loneliness, the redundant regurgitated "get to know" me lines or constant potential for rejection and humiliation.

It's being "that guy".

Its being the one guy at the end of the dinner table who whose (married or coupled-up) friends most certainly pre-introduce him to other singles as, "Oh, my friend [so and so] is going to be there, he's sooo much fun!'

Baaarf.

I feel the glances as people survey the room at the party or join the table, like they're picking out the person from the ad in craigslist to buy a dvd player and agreed to meet at a coffee shop...and I can't help but hear them all thinking, "Oh he's kind of cute, seems funny, why's he still single?"

Why does it bother me?

Because "that guy" is the charming permanently single ladies-dude that is fun, relatively handsome but ends up being 45, still single, less handsome and growing more pathetic with each weekend out attempting to squeeze the last few ounces of charisma out of the garlic press that is his former personality. Ya, that guy.

I don't like that guy.

And also, I don't prefer to be single.

I'd like to think that after a few minutes I genuinely come across as a sincere & respectful gentlemen, but due to being blessed with what can only be described as an "infectious" personality coupled with an uber-friendly demeanor and an undying need for adventure(attention?), I fear I am often lumped in as just another one of those "fun" dudes just out for a good time.

Now don't get me wrong, I DO like to have a good time, and I LOVE to take people along for the ride, but within all of my wild adventures and spontaneity, I'd much rather just have somebody rad to wake up with every morning.

I have had that before.

Radness I mean.

I can safely say that in 30+ years I have been in love 3 times. One was a high school sweetheart. 5 years. But as the poster child for attention deficit disorder it was a mish mash of misguided feelings and fulfillment of the deep seeded need for a family.

Another was the most passionate, perfect, blissfull amazing 2 years I have ever experienced with another human. But being so young and inexperienced in life, it obviously blew up when we were faced with legitimate life lessons, and it traumatized me for...well...ever I think.

And lastly, this story begins with me as a newly single thirty something after close to 5 years of a relationship that abruptly ended at the exact point it was going to begin gettin all fur real n shizz. And honestly, I'm glad it ended..

But now I am faced with a strange and terrifying predicament:

I don't know how to do this! 

I've been thrust into a world where I'm no longer me and somebody... I'm just me.

From waking up alone,  to defining what a home is, to putting myself "out there" for....shit....whatever...this has been the most challenging personal experience of my life, and most of it has been hilarious.

This isn't advice, this isn't the answer to anything. I'm just a dude. Trying to figure it out.