Margueritas make me sleepy

“So blissfully unaware.”

“What?” asked Andy as she studied the umbrella in her girly green-ish drink.

“They all look so happy. Look at them. All ‘look at me, look at me shaking my groove thing,’ all happy and stuff and junk,” I said obviously un-entertained by my flaming cocktail. Seriously. I had to blow it out.

“I see you’re going to be your usually uplifting self.”

It was Friday night, I had dragged Andy out of her sweat pants because I decided we should be “people” and interact with other said “people.” … Ok I also wanted an opportunity to wear the new pretty tragically unaffordable shoes I had just purchased.

So we were in a dim lit club, with fancy white leather couches, elaborate wood architecture, as well as suspiciously attractive barmaids as far as the eye could see.

The crowd was largely made up of well dressed university students. And there lay my melancholy.

“So happy now. They have no idea middle age is gonna hit them like a punch in the face. It’s a tragedy really.”

I get worried about a lot of things. I worry about whether the guy in Polka Dot Door ever get to see Polkaroo, I worry about Pauly Shore and his complete lack of a career, and damn it, yah, I still worry about Jennifer Aniston’s happiness.

But right now, I’m thinking: who will that pretty boy go home with, that’s who I’m worry about. Not the man with the man boobs.

“Hey are you worried about the man with the man boobs?”

“Scuse me?”

“I read this short story once, about a guy who said he was worried about some relatively clean cut guy with man boobs.”

“Um gotta say no. Not worried.”

“Yah me neither. I’m worried about him”

I was looking at an unnaturally attractive guy leaning on an awkward modern structure, possibly holding the whole place together.

“Worried? You mean you’re lusting.”

“No I’m worried. Nobody ever worries about the pretty people.”

Andy wasn’t particularly impressed with my musing. Instead she was intrigued by a nice looking, well dressed guy who seemed like he was having a controlled seizure on the dance floor. Well the poor guy had caught her staring and was coming right towards her.”

“Hey how you doin’?” he said illustrating his speech by fake shooting his index fingers at Andy.

She was visibly annoyed. Well, she was visibly annoyed to me. I’ve known the girl since she thought that The Backstreet Boys were “like, omigod, so totally awesome.” When she’s annoyed, she actually looks earnestly concerned: less eye rolling, more eyebrow furrowing.

Andy took her marguerita and held it high, “You’re up here. You should be down here,” she said as she lowered her drink to her navel.”

“See, now that’s the kind of guy you should be worrying about.”

“Bah. Enough people do.”

“Let’s go home. Margueritas make me sleepy.”