Last night during the Bruins/Blackhawks game, a drunken obnoxious guy asked me out on a date. He was tall, had really nice muscles, a lopsided backwards baseball hat and a really lame tribal tattoo. He leaned back a little too far in the bar stool, and with a beer in one hand and a burger in the other, he casually asked me when I could go out.
As a bartender I’m in the business of humoring people, I play along a little, not just for tips but for fun too. Boys who are trying to impress you will usually not only shell out more cash, but they pass the time too.
It’s a game, I guess.
When this guy had finished chewing and flashed his best smile, I tried to answer him honestly. When could I go out? Not this weekend, I have a wrestling event and then work. Then wrestling practice, then more work, and another event. Then practice, then a deadline, then work. I can’t miss practice, I can’t be hungover for the gym, I can’t pull all nighters anymore; I need sleep!
When could I go out? I couldn’t.
Luckily that was the answer I was planning on giving my intoxicated friend. He got over it quickly and moved on to a few shots of Jameson while I wiped up the spilled whiskey after him, and I started thinking. Some people really aren’t lying when they say they’re too busy to date. I couldn’t think of one night that I had off for at least the next three weeks. That was scary.
I’m 30; this is the time I see people settling down, getting married, having kids. Me? I’m not there. I love the idea of having someone to come home to, but that’s why I have a cat.
(Oh my God, I just typed that sentence, kill me.)
But in all seriousness, anyone else would never see me. The indifferent cat comes and goes; a boyfriend, now that would take a lot of work and a lot of time that I don’t have. I heard you have to feed and water those things, and the one I had a few years ago, he snored; I didn’t sleep for two years.
The last guy I went out to dinner with once told me over a no carb meat fiesta that wrestling wasn’t a sport: it was a lifestyle. “Don’t do this,” he said, “you have a life. You’re a bartender and a writer. Don’t go down this road.” His words often echo in my mind, daily, actually. They challenge me, annoy me, enrage me, inspire me, and on bad days, they crush me. But another guy once said to me over low carb beers,
“Are you in, or are you out?” Clearly I was in.
Back in my bar the guy who asked me out is gone, replaced by a number of guys who won’t ask me out, and some others who might. Either way, my answer is going to be the same, not because I don’t want to, but because I literally can’t. Sorry boys, see you at the bar, in the ring, or on DigBoston.com; because dating?
Ain’t nobody got time for that.