Saturday, it was decided, was an opportunity to break out of pattern and "try something new." Translation: same friends, different bar. We're crazy like that.
Obviously endured insanity at work the entire weekend - is it Christmas already? Why the fuck is everyone shopping? And no, we do not have that goddamn sweater in a medium. Go away.
So on a whim we chose this fantastic downtown dive noted for its blues and beer scene. Amazing how one can transform instantly into another dimension simply by coughing up a measly $5 cover and filing into a bar. Yes, there were beer posters and reggae albums and John Belushi/Dan Ackroyd memorabilia. Yes, there were multicolored strands of twinkle lights... everywhere. Yes, we were outnumbered tenfold by middle aged Hoosiers.
So remember how awkward wedding receptions always are at first? Especially family weddings (before everyone gets good and smashed, that is)... You're there, stuffed into some "appropriate" dress/gown/tux/suit/tie and uncomfortable shoes, bitching about being hungry, glaring at the wedding party, flirting with the servers to see if you can get alcohol earlier than everyone else, and praying to God your relatives don't ask you to dance right away. And then people do start to dance. Get down. Boogie. Only it's your mom and the Village People are playing or Uncle Harold is doing the twist despite his arthritis or (and this is my favorite) the unfortunate DJ has decided to "liven things up" with modern hip-hop and the bewildered baby boomers are sullenly taking their seats and praying for more 70's rock or hell, even some goobery love ballad (when they will of course grab their spouse and shuffle around in that stoically fond, asexual "married 35 years" way).
Anyway, combine all of those awkward sights and feelings for a taste of Saturday night's entertainment. There were at least two live bands - the kind where the musicians wear spats and cowboy hats and handlebar mustaches and Wrangler jeans - and of course everybody was getting busy on the dance floor. Oh my god. People over the age of 45 (with the exception of those agelessly glamourous/nimble people like Cher or Madonna) should not... NOT... be allowed to bump and grind. It was like a traffic accident that you couldn't tear your eyes away from... Must. Look. Away. Indiscriminately awkward.
So this is my best introduction to a) America and b) Indiana for my roommate. And that morning during a grand outing to the grocery store, we were confronted with a 50-something woman in a full-body camo jumpsuit plundering the produce section and gabbing about being late for her manicure appointment. Can't a girl catch a break?
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1 comment:
Laughing. Out. Loud. I am, really, but I could stand typing the abrvtn. Agreed that the older folks just need to be older folks and keep that nastiness under wraps.
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