When You Meet A Guy At A Bar

When you meet the love of your life at a bar in Chelsea at 2 am on a Friday night, refuse the drink he’ll offer you.

And refuse it again the second time he asks, or he’ll ask you about your day. You’ll want to tell him that your dog got put down. Don’t tell him that. If you do, he’ll tell you that he has a dog that he loves very much (you invited the vampire in, didn’t you?). He’ll tell you his name is Hubert. You’ll laugh because whose name is Hubert? The dog? He clears this up for you. The dog is Hubert. He’ll show you a picture.

Then he’ll offer you a ride home. Don’t tell him you’re not far. If you do, he’ll offer to walk you, and you’ll say yes to be polite. You were always so polite.

He’ll want to exchange numbers. “You don’t seem like other girls,” he’ll say. Don’t take that as a compliment. It isn’t. You’ve always prided yourself in being just like other girls. Everyone wants the cool girl. Don’t fall for it. It isn’t realistic. The cool girls only exist in bad boy’s imaginations. You said that. Your best friend almost put it on a t-shirt.

You’ll give him your number, this guy, and he’ll call you right away and say he saw it in a movie once as an excuse. “He’s just not that into you?” You’ll ask him. He’ll say “No. It’s something with Renée Zellweger.”

And you’ll think about this really hard, because you’ve never seen Renée Zellweger in a movie like that. Bridget Jones Diary? He’ll say never mind and change the subject.

He’ll ask to take you out on a date—a proper one. You’ll tell him all dates are proper dates, which is something a cool girl would say. Isn’t it?

He’ll ask if you like ice cream, which will remind you of that White Russian you had last night. You’ll want to puke. Don’t, because he’ll recommend pedialyte. “Pedialyte?” You’ll ask. You were being obtuse.

He’ll come to your apartment with pedialyte. You’ll answer the door. He’ll have flowers too. You’ll start to think you could, maybe, date this guy. Don’t. He’ll take you out and he’ll fall in love with you, cool girl. It’s your fault for being the kind of girl a guy could fall in love with.

Like the time you were going through a phase. You wanted to be a fashion designer. You thought you were Sonia Rykiel or something. You bought a sewing machine—spent 200 dollars on it. You were always so up and down about things. Men like that about you—at first they do. The men you meet are inconsistent. Your father was like that. You date men like your father (you haven’t realized this yet).

Your convinced, though, that this particular man may be different than all the other ones. Know that every woman that has ever existed thought that.

So when he asks you to be his girlfriend, say no, because he’ll want you to move in. Eventually he will. And it’s been 2 years, so you’ll want to.

You’ll really want to.

If you move in with this guy, it’ll be good for a while. There’s always just the ‘while’ with you.

You’ll be intimate, often, more often than your parents ever did, but then he’ll stop pretending to be the person he was when you met him. He’ll stay out late, drinking. He’ll tell you he was with friends all night.

Don’t believe him.

If you do, and he comes home sometimes smelling like someone else, you’ll be devastated. You don’t wear that perfume. And then you’ll remember the time you scoffed at girls like that (cool girl). You said girls like that were insufferable—agonizing over a man's scent.

But that was the you from before this guy. That was the you, you thought men liked. You should know that this new you is the real you. And that the cool girl isn’t cool at all, really.

Not really.

Cool girls grow up.

And you grew up. You grew way up when you met him.

He’ll kind of admit to looking at other women, but he’ll say it’s your fault. You’re not the same.

but you’re not supposed to be the same. You lose almost a million skin cells a day. And biological change is still change.

You’ll pack your stuff. You’ll leave. You always leave.

He’ll call you wanting to apologize. For everything. Don’t answer the phone or he’ll say that he wants you to come back. He’ll sound sincere about it, too. They always do, don't they?

You’ll go back to him, thinking you can make it work. You can’t.

You’ll waste 3 years trying to make it work. But you can’t make it work.

You’ll realize this too late. You’ll marry him because you’re 35 and the days, the months, the years are being pulled out from under you—no more time to wait. That’s what you thought, and it’s what your mom said, and said, and said.

You’ll honeymoon in Indonesia, Riau Archipelago. You had a small wedding so you could afford it.

And you’ll be so in love.

But complacency isn’t love. Nobody told you that.

After the honeymoon, you’ll move out of his grubby little apartment in Queens and into a house. Your first house. It’s the exact one from the vision board you made. (You went through a vision board phase).

You thought marrying him would change him, didn’t you? You even thought about a baby, but he doesn’t want a baby. You didn’t know that. You should have asked.

And you go to bed one night and your stomach twists when you roll over and he isn’t there. You’ll call his phone. He’ll say he fell asleep at a friends house. You’ll get upset and lose sleep.

You won’t want to forgive him this time. You’ll pack your stuff while he’s at work. You’ll get a place of your own. You’ll change your number. You’ll buy a new wardrobe and start taking the free yoga classes at the Park on Thursday mornings.

You’ll sometimes wonder about him, and it’ll make you crazy. Remember that book you bought? The Body Keeps The Score? You skimmed it. You should have read it, but you didn’t. So you’ll go to the bar when you’re feeling sad.

And you’ll meet a guy at the bar who’ll offer you a drink...