Seen at the Scene

Scene: The Cask Republic. Table for seven. My matchmaker friend invited a swath of single Ivy League-educated young professionals to introduce to the Boss Lady and me. With 1.5 eligible men to each single woman at the table, the odds were in our favor.

Unfortunately, good odds don’t always mean good goods. The bachelors were a bust. Initially, I was hopeful; chatting politely, giggling on cue and sipping white wine instead of red so my lips didn’t turn that horrible shade of purple. But, as soon as the insanely good looking frat boy showed up and established superiority over the rest of us, I knew I had lost their attention and my invitation to the after party. He was a real man’s man. The other guys at the table fell over themselves trying to impress him. I’d never seen anything like it (my college didn’t have fraternities, so I never had to compete with a guy for another guy's attention before like this girl). I quietly bowed out of the conversation and checked my Twitter account on my phone.

I realize no one likes the girl quietly tweeting in the corner, so, in a last ditch effort to enjoy some intellectual conversation before the bill came, I asked the frat boy if he could lick his elbow, claiming that even though it was supposedly impossible, I’d seen a girl do it once. He made a valiant effort and we enjoyed five additional minutes talking about elbow licking and how with a little practice and conditioning, we could probably all do it.

I decided Cask Republic was a lovely venue to talk elbows with the Yale grad students around town, but not very much fun. It was time to change the scene to a place with a little more spunk: Elm Bar.

I met up with my friend Lindsay. Her husband was taking pictures for one of the bands playing that night and she said there would be a good crowd.  

As soon as I walked into the Hipster Dive Bar on Elm St., I knew I should have dressed a little more PBR and a little less Appletini.

Everyone wore black.

I wore a brightly colored party dress, opaque blue tights and yellow wedge shoes. Since hipsters wear flats, I was the tallest girl at the bar. I felt like a bright disco ball amid a room of dark shadows.  Still, I loved the scene: mutton chops, tattoos, piercings and a mosh pit. We even had a beer thrown all over us in the first 10 minutes we were there. Classic.

Armed with the largest glass of gin and tonic I’d ever seen, I overcame my fears and really started to relax.

We made it to the back room where the guys in matching corduroy pants and different colored hoodies were watching the pool table. Enter tall, dark, handsome artist, stage left.

He barged into several of our pictures, conversed with ease, stole a kiss and got my number. I couldn’t figure out how old he was. He wore a faded high school theater t-shirt from 1996. He talked a lot about his art and the need to express himself. He told me how much he enjoys painting in the nude and I offered to write his memoirs for him.

He asked us if we wanted to go over to his friend’s house, just a block away, to see his new kittens. Not being the kind of girl who is lured into strange artistic men’s homes at the promise of fluffy kitties, I said no. He said please. I said maybe. He kissed me again and I ran away.

I couldn’t help myself. Maybe it’s the Roman Catholic upbringing, but I don’t believe in going home with strange guys the first night I meet them if I'm looking for a relationship. If I'm looking for a tangled web of emotions, drama and potential STD’s, yes. A committed monogamous relationship, not so much.

Besides, I figured since he had my business card with my name, number, e-mail address, blog and column information on it, he’d find a way to get ahold of me if he was interested.

He never called/texted/e-mailed/commented/tweeted or facebooked me. I can take a hint. #HipsterFail