Single guys used to feel sorry for me. “I bet you wish you were like me, ” they’d quip, “No ball and chain, nobody telling me I can’t wear white tube socks to church or that cheeseburgers are a leading cause of celibacy.” My response was always the same, I liked being married. Of course they believed me in exactly the same way Tea Party activists believe federal budget reports.
But my status has since changed to Middle Aged Single Man (pronounced “loser”) and I don’t like it. So I did what single men do when they don’t want to be single; I went out to meet women. I blame a sudden fit of optimism, which is dangerous to middle aged single men. Especially when it leads you to a dance club, which it did. Now that fit of optimism is laughing at me with his buddies. Allow me to explain.
At the club an attractive girl was sitting behind a counter. She hadn’t seen my ID. She couldn’t know for certain that the white in my hair wasn’t due to a near traffic accident on the way. She took a quick glance at me and said, “No charge.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” I said.
“Well, tonight we’re not charging anyone over a certain age.”
What was the certain age, 22? Of course not, It was somewhere between the “Dashing 30’s” and “Too Old to Dance without Spraining Something.” But I wasn’t offended because, as a middle aged man, I am a cheapskate and I sauntered in like some kind of V.I.P.
Before I go on, let me remind you of one overriding principle in business; sex sells. For example, those commercials where a gorgeous model wearing a light, clingy dress is draping herself over a car? (Men, there really is a car there. Trust me.) Well, that kind of advertisement is the reason there are more cars than trees in our country. If it weren’t for that, the practical side of men would reject the sales pitch because horses work perfectly fine and who needs frills like doors and wheels? Besides, hay is cheaper than gasoline.
So anyway, moments later a young, barely dressed sales pitch came to me with a tray full of long test tubes containing pink chemicals. I don’t know what she looked like because the height of my chair coupled with her height meant that I ended up saying hello to her bikini top. She added to my embarrassment by offering two drink choices; each named after certain female anatomies.
At that point all I wanted was a cigarette. It was the most pleasant horrible experience ever.
But the most uncomfortable thing about the dance club was the clientele. Twenty-somethings ruled the dance floor, but weren’t dancing so much as sexually baitingÃ¢Â?Â¦everyone. All this young, electrifying energy and all I could think was, “This is like the stock market, only the trade goods are affection, sex, and various random STDs!”
I won’t return there, even if it means remaining single. I want a woman who doesn’t mass advertise. Also, if I have another fit of optimism, I am going to drown it with Metamucil. That is the Drink of Choice for middle aged single men.