Welcome Back, Hooker

All the signs were there.
I should have known.
It was too easy.
Other platitude.

There was no way New York was just going to let me Moonwalk back into its life as if nothing had ever happened. And definitely not let me believe for a second I was anything special.

So what had happened was...

I was hanging loose. I was laid back Cali, and to say that I was 32, jobless and sleeping on my grandparent's pull-out couch, the one trump card I had was that I had gotten Barack Obama re-elected (God Bless our Black President) and I was hella chill compared to my NY compatriots. Take that, super successful, gainfully employed, new and impossibly good-looking moms posting articles on Pinterest asking for tips on how to make their husbands look less like Christopher Meloni. That's cool - I'm all zen and shit.

I decided tonight was the night. I was going to get my neighborhood groove back and finally hit up my deeply loved neighborhood bar, the Dive Bar. Well, in all honesty, circumstance had decided that a few hours earlier.

I had accepted an invitation to have dinner with my friend Miss Cleo (all names have been changed to protect the clownish) who informed me she wanted to invite Shelley Long who had a friend in from out of town, Woody.
We met at a wine bar and, because of work, I arrived 2 hours into their happy hour. Now, if you are someone aged 29 or over, you're already breaking your neck rolling your eyes because you, my perceptive friend, are someone who realizes the great importance of inebriation coordination. To enter, stage left, smack dab in the middle of a happiness wave, already in progress, throws off all energy, renders jokes unrecognizable, and essentially relegates you back to the high school cafeteria - perpetually feeling as if you are on the outside of an inside joke and wanting to fake Legionnaire's disease and go home.
But, I was all zen and shit.
So it was all, "Naw, it's cool brah.. Just ridin the wave and rollin with the homies. Let's do this, I can hang."
Yeah, but I couldn't, and so halfway through dinner I told Shelley Long that I didn't know where she got the idea that someone could walk from St. Mark's to 34th and 10th in 15 minutes (amirite??!?!?) after I was pretty sure that she got all snippy about it, and I really wanted to know had she ever done it. I mean had she? HAD SHE?!?!
...

The night air was cool on my face as I turned it toward the falafel truck so I wouldn't have to look anyone in the eye. Woody asked me about those Mets. I pretended to find a pair of skull and crossbones socks on a table deeply fascinating. I knew what I had to do. I had to be the bigger person, face up to my unfounded fears that I was "that girl," and just brush it off as a thing that happens to us all after 4 glasses of wine, three shots and 3 beers. I took a deep breath. And ran.
That's right folks. I shot out of there like Lindsay Lohan at a Colombian house party after TMZ busts through the door. I waited until Miss Cleo and Shelley were admiring the same pair of socks I was (but for reals, tho. Ew.), turned to Woody and told him I was feeling Legionnaire-y and just before I could register the full look of utter disgust on his face (not the first time I've see that look) I bolted.

Past the NYU industrial complex, around Broseph alley, barreling through streets made mean by the likes of Julian Schnabel (wut-wut!), I had a purposeful destination in mind. A world of never-ending happiness for a smart, over-confident, enthusiastic female human who never quite remembers to put men first. Or laundry. Laundry's a problem too.
Oh yes, my friends. I went all hunger games up in that bitch and it was only ever going to lead me straight (no pun intended) into the deepest corner of... THE WEST VILLAGE!!
May the odds be ever in your favor. Men who pay you all sorts of attention and you don't have to reassure them that, yes, it's big enough - I like them odds!  Oh - kaaayy! (snap) [that was mad 90's].

I was headed for my happy place at the Duplex for audience-participation cabaret night and popcorn served fresh from a vintage mini-carnival popper and a cute little hobbity queen of a bartender who doled out Marlene Deitrich one-liners, had a heavy pour and used to sprinkle peanut M&M's in the popcorn. Add some criticism and a Virginia Slim Light and he could be my mother.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost -- ...
..went home with a lesbian (not a hot one) because it was so damn loud in the Duplex I wasn't really certain what I was agreeing to. I managed to finagle myself out of that arrangement, but I went up to the twinkie bartender on duty and asked what's up with the "What is Love" playlist?
- It's retro club night
                   (RETRO!? It's fucking CeCe Peniston. I.. Ugh! don't get me started)
- What happened to Frodo?
- Gone.
- Popcorn machine?
- Gone. I think the guy at Stonewall has it.
                   (gasp!)
- And the guys who used to do Jay McInerney impressions off the urinals?
- Is he the guy from "The Crying Game"?
- I hate you.
- What?
- You're hair's hot!
- OMIGAWD THEENK YEWWW!
- Can I have a vodka soda?
- Sure.
- I'm on a tab.
- What's the name?
- Jay McInerney.

Well, didn't we almost have it all..

I had to salvage this night. Nope. There was NO WAY that dawn would break on this dumpster fire of a journey in my defeat. To quote Scarlett (O'Hara. The original, you hipster suckas), where shall I go, what shall I do?!
And that's when Dive Bar breached the horizons of my brain.

OF COURSE!!

That bar's my jam! Nothing could hurt me there. And, I mean, it couldn't be any worse than the rest of my evening, amirite!?

..

Cold.

I just feel cold.

I think I've been slapped.

Maybe.

Oh wait, no I did that to myself.

Wait, why?

Oh yes.

I'm talking to myself.

In a bathroom mirror.

In a bar.

Why?

To tell myself that it's not my fault.

It's not your fault, Will Hunting.

It's not your fault.

He would've talked to you anyway.

You don't give off a whore's scent.

You are a lovely, viable woman that any other Swedish Rhodes scholar would have approached even if he wasn't convinced you were a hooker.

Honestly.

No, no.. You. Are. ... GREAT!

Perfect, in fact, see because, he CHOSE you.

You were the Julia Roberts of that place.

He thought you were sooooo smoking hot that there was no way you'd look at him unless you were paid to do so.

Yeah that's it.

Now you go to your falafel truck with your head held high.

Eat the shit out of that shawarma like a bawse.

Put your earbuds in.

Fall asleep with your hand in that greasy bag to the dulcet sounds of Ambrosia.

Don't just think, but know, that you are a champion.

A champion.