A Soccer Mom Walks Into a Bar

Last night, for the first time in several months, I was able to go out to the Monday night knitting group at a bar a few towns over.  I used to attend regularly, and then Willem's class schedule got in the way, so we comforted ourselves with a smaller gathering at my house to watch cheesy television and bang small pointy sticks together with string.  But the school year is over, and despite my tendency toward low-grade social anxiety and plain old inertia, I do enjoy getting out and being part of the group.

So I packed up and headed out, with a quick stopover at Emily's softball field to deliver winter coats and gloves to the kids, because there's no reason to assume that, by May 19, the weather would actually be warm enough for outdoor activities.  I arrived at the bar right around 7:00, and was the first of the group there.

It turns out that only myself and Gretchen actually showed up last night.  I'm fairly certain this was not evidence of a conspiracy.  And it's just as well, because our normal table, the only one with decent lighting, was coopted by a man and his MacBook, and no amount of subtle glaring and telepathic messaging convinced him to get up and leave.

Instead, I took a seat on one of the couches surrounding a coffee table at the front of the bar.  The couches are low, with the kind of long, overstuffed seats that make you lean way back and consider napping; not what I would choose when I expect people to want to sit up and reach their drinks on the table, but this is not the only example of how things would be different if I ran the world.  I'm coping.

I sat down alone, got myself a glass of Riesling (and felt appropriately smug and grown-up to have been able to order a wine by name and not promptly spit it back out).  When I returned to my couch, a young man - perhaps 25? - had taken a seat at the couch opposite me.  We exchanged the eye contact and nod, like you do, and I started knitting.  Gretchen appeared shortly afterward, and we chatted.

It took me a while to realize that the guy on the other couch was paying a lot more attention to me than to his magazine.  No-pages-turned sort of attention.  And then he started making small talk, about the music and the weather and the strange little bar dog - a springer spaniel, small but not puppyish, who seemed to feel right at home - who wandered over and curled up next to me on the couch, because we all know how much I love dogs.  Later, he started talking about the beer he was drinking, and how good it was, and it was clear that an offer to buy me a drink was imminent.

Let me be perfectly clear: I am not a person that gets hit on in bars.  I don't even go to bars very often, but when I do, I bring myself.  My almost-31-year-old, 20-pounds-overweight, mother-of-two, married-and-boring, pleasant-but-not-beautiful self.  I'm not unhappy with the way I look, and I don't dress provocatively or in a way intended to draw attention.  I'm just me, and that's fine.  And me is not a ruthless sexual weapon.

Beyond appearances, my whole life centers around work - which I very rarely discuss in public - and family.  I dropped Willem's name in conversation frequently, not as a warning to the guy on the couch, just because he features so prominently in my life that if I tried not to include him, I wouldn't have much else to say.  I talked about the kids.  And just in case I wasn't sending off sufficient Married-Boring-Mom vibes on my own, Gretchen was going out of her way to use phrases like "your husband" in conversation, as well.

So it was all very strange.  Not uncomfortable, never inappropriate or offensive, just strange.  I think I rolled with it pretty well, and I was prepared to decline a drink from a stranger because somehow that sends off a certain implication that idle chatter does not.  It never became an issue, because once it was clear the rest of the group was not meeting that night, we left to go to Gretchen's and watch cheesy television and bang small pointy sticks together with string.

But it was odd, and if there had been a way for me to ask, "What are you doing?" without sounding freaked-out or offended, I would have.  Because I was neither freaked out nor offended, but I was curious and a little baffled.  I'm so out of practice that I didn't even realize it was happening, at first.  My harmless-flirting muscles have atrophied through disuse.

This is OK with me.

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Cross-posted at One More Thing.

Comments

[Jonathon]

I'm always surprised -- and a little embarrassed, honestly -- whenever I get hit on. I always thought I'd be single forever, and now, at 25, I'm already waaaay out of practice (which has worked out for the best, actually)