I don’t get out much. Well, wait… let me rephrase that. I do get out, just not without J – not that either of us mind. The truth is we are two peas in a pod, and really enjoy being in each other’s company; however, for that reason, months will go by where we never really experience an absence from one another. Even though we don’t have a problem with this per say, we both realize that it’s probably healthy to spend some time apart. I mean, even for conversation sake, just so we have something new or different to share.

The main reason we don’t spend much time apart is because we hang out with the same group of people – other couples. Basically they’re all of J’s old guy friends who are now married with children -- all good people, but sort of built-in friends, if you know what I mean. I have never managed to develop much of a tight, independent group of girlfriends outside of this little clan of ours. Those who I would consider ‘my girls’ all live back in Ontario… and so hooking up for drinks and gossip on the weekend isn’t exactly doable.

I have managed to make new girlfriends through work, but even still, none of us get out much together as a group. They all have their own separate groups of friends who they usually hang with - however, I suspect that like me, most of their close friends consist of couples as well, and not ‘girlfriends’. Why we girls don’t get together more often, I don’t know? I guess we’ve all got busy lives doing things with our husbands (it still feels so totally weird to say that) and our ‘couples friends’, that our schedules usually conflict.

So, a couple weeks ago we planned for Friday to be a girls’ night out. We arranged to meet up at a pub downtown for some drinks, then head to a nearby blues bar for some live music and dancing. I was pretty excited for a night out, and I know that the rest of the ladies were as well. Heck, some of them even went out and bought new clothes for the event.

Fighting against my natural instinct to be early or prompt, this time I made sure to arrive at the pub about twenty minutes late, mainly because I hate being the first person to arrive, waiting for someone else to appear.

Even so, when I entered, the pub was jam-packed and I couldn’t see my friends anywhere. The room expanded, doubling, and then tripling in size with each turn of my head in every possible direction. A flood of one hundred tables spread out before me as I scanned a thousand faces, looking for a familiar smile. When I realized that I was probably blocking the entrance, I slowly walked forward, taking shy little baby steps, still not seeing anyone. Dammit. A mild discomfort started to crawl beneath my skin. Shit… am I going to have to grab a table and sit by myself? FINALLY, I saw an arm waving at me from the back of the room, as two friendly faces peeked around from behind a large support beam. Whew. What a relief!

Over the next hour or two, a decent-sized crowd of ladies showed up, making about 11 of us in total. Mostly friends and former coworkers, with a few unfamiliar faces mixed in for good measure – friends of friends who were also in desperate need of a night out with the girls. After a couple crantinis and some painfully slow service, a few of us decided that it was time to head over to the Blue Gator to see if we could snag a couple tables.

I used to work at the Gator when I first moved to town. It’s only been 5 years, but it might as well have been a lifetime ago. It’s hard to believe how much things have changed in that time.

As we walked down the street past the crowd of smokers on the front patio, I couldn’t help but groan at the choir of off-tune pickup lines being tossed our way. Like I was saying before, it’s been forever since I’ve been out with just the girls, and so obviously it has been equally as long since I’ve been privy to the not-so-subtle charms of sleazy men. Surprisingly, the door man was practically the worst of the bunch. “We have to charge you ladies for looking so good,” he kept saying over and over and - pathetically enough - over again once more, as he plucked through a fistful of bills, giving us change for our $5.00 cover charge. Good grief. Our collective “If we look so good, then we should be charging you!” retort didn’t win us any kind of discount.

We pushed our way past the bunch, who shamelessly groped with their eyes as their incoherent nonsense floated amidst laughter and cigarette smoke. As we made our way indoors, it seemed that the welcoming committee on the patio merely foreshadowed what we had paid $5.00 to encounter inside – a wide array of weirdoes of all shapes, sizes and age groups, a new hideous layout that has dramatically changed since my waitressing days, not to mention, our unfriendly waitress who looked like she just rolled out of bed. Forgive me, because I know this’ll sound catty and I’m truly the last person in the world to be classified as a fashionista, BUT, when you’re dealing with the public, a little effort – or even just a bit of pride -- is probably a good idea.

I couldn’t help but think to myself, “What the hell has happened to this place? Has it always been this seedy?”

While the new awkward layout and poor service definitely contributed to the uncomfortable atmosphere, the truth is when I really think about it, I guess the place was always a little bit on the seedy side. I can remember that we had our own tiny trio of bikers and coke dealers back when I used to work the floor. The difference is, because they were regulars and I was their waitress, I didn’t find them so seedy because they were always gentlemen to me. (Since then, I’ve head that one has OD’d, and I’m sure the other two have either left town or are in jail, because I didn’t see either of them around.) I really think the seediness begins to show its true self when you make the transition from being a waitress to being a gal on the town. When being badgered or annoyed, a waitress can politely smile and casually move on to the next table or into the kitchen for a momentary escape, whereas a girl on the town has to be beyond blunt or just leave the premises. My problem is I’ve always been more of a sweet little waitress at heart than the blunt barfly. I really need to learn how to invoke my inner bitch.

Case in point is when this older guy asked me to dance. I said no, so he asked my friend, and she echoed my sentiments. “It’s just a dance, not a marriage proposal,” the old guy teased. I watched as he walked away, and stood rejected at the edge of the dance floor, scanning the room for someone who would agree to be his dancing partner.

Now, I’ve always had a soft spot for old people. I believe that if I didn’t have this creative side to me, I would definitely be working with geriatrics. I think senior citizens are precious, and have so much to offer, but are frequently ignored or dismissed in today’s society. Ha… but listen to me go on about seniors… this guy wasn’t actually that old at all. I think upon first glance he just looked older than he actually was. In truth, he was probably only a few years older than my father… perhaps only in his early 60’s. In any case, with his small frame and head of white, in the dim lighting he appeared older, which contributed towards me feeling bad for him. I figured he seemed harmless enough, or at least more harmless than the other oddballs I had already encountered. I rationalized to my friend, “Poor ol’ guy… he’s just looking for someone to dance with. It’s just one fast dance – not a slow song. It won’t kill me. I guess I don’t mind.” She nodded in agreement, so I went up and told him that I would dance with him.

Jeez Louise… what the hell was I thinking?! I wish my friend would’ve slapped some sense into me. As I tried to leave after the song had ended, he bugged me to wait to see what the band was going to play next. Alright… fine. That’s when I managed to wave my girls up onto the dance floor to make it more of a group thing, and less of a ‘me and this old guy’ thing.

Once I had my girls up there for a dance or two, I managed to squeak out. Two of us headed back to our seats, but it wasn’t long until the older guy was back, pestering me to continue dancing. I politely declined over and over again. I didn’t feel like dancing anymore… or more specifically, I didn’t feel like dancing with him. This was a girls’ night, and he was not invited. But clearly he must’ve had a few too many, because he didn’t take the brush off as a hint… instead he seemed to interpret it as a challenge as he grew more and more persistent. I should’ve reminded him, “Hey, you asked for a dance, not a marriage proposal… The dance is over and I’m already married.”

As you can imagine, he immediately transformed from someone I felt kinda sorry for into this leech who wouldn’t go away. For Pete’s sake, he even helped himself to a sip of my wine, even though he said he didn’t like wine! (Not that I offered him any or even bothered to ask whether he enjoyed wine or not. I was doing my best trying to ignore him by this point.) Needless to say, after he stuck his schnoz in my Shiraz and sampled it as if he were at a friggin’ winery, the rest of it sat unfinished. I wasn’t going to drink it after some stranger has his lips on it, NOR was I going to say, “Hey buddy, you owe me a drink now!” As if I’d fall into that trap. Instead, we eventually took this as our cue to leave.

Lesson learned. Young creeps don’t change – they just turn into old creeps.

Because we were still in the mood to dance, we ended up a fun waterfront pub that has great music and dancing, but fortunately doesn’t attract the crowds of 18 year olds like the clubs do. We spent the rest of the night taking turns watching each other’s purses and coats as we’d climb up on the stage to dance. We danced, and danced, and danced without a care in the world… with the exception of keeping our eyes open for broken glass. Something I had also forgotten about since my dancing days.

Of course, my shoes weren’t made for dancing, and after a couple hours, I knew my feet were totally going to pay the price the next day. I had already done a two hour walk the day before and had blistered my heels, now my toes were taking the punishment as I put all my weight on them as I twisted and turned to the beat. At one point I looked down at my feet and knew that a few of my toes were going to be bruised. Seriously, I have never danced to the point of bruising my toes before… of course, I completely blame my shoes.

I decided to sit down and give my feet a rest, and just watch the people out on the dance floor which was freckled with a handful of Halloween costumes. A cute young Snow White and her Disco Dude boyfriend danced like they were the only two in the room, gazing into each other’s eyes. Sigh. I realized that I missed my J. I was ready to go home… not to mention, my poor tortured soles had been begging me to put them to bed a half hour ago.

Normally I’m the one to always fall asleep on the couch in the middle of a movie, so I immediately checked my watch in disbelief when the DJ announced last call. Can it be that late already? Of course, I was certainly not in need for another beverage as I still had the same drink – untouched - that my friend bought for me when we arrived. I just wasn’t in the mood to drink anymore… except water. Damn, I really could’ve used another glass of water. I was parched. But the efficient waitress swiftly took away my glass of ice, and little did she know that I was crunching away on those cubes like there was no tomorrow.

With the other two exhausted girls’ night survivors by my side, we tried waving our last friend off the dance floor so we could head for home. It took a while, but when she saw us putting on our jackets, she reluctantly said goodbye to her new Latino dance partner, meanwhile insisting that he was gay and the only reason we saw him touching her married ass was because he must’ve felt like he had to. Uh-huh… right. ;)

Once home, I pounded back two glasses of water and refilled my glass before crawling into bed. J was still awake, so it was nice to chat with him for a little while instead of going right off to sleep.

“It felt weird to sit on the couch under the blanket and have a glass of wine without you,” he admitted. “Going to bed alone felt *really* weird.” It’s been months since either of us have gone to bed alone, but before drifting off into dreamland, we both agreed that it’s good to have a chance to miss each other now n’ then.