The Time I Went To A Bar Alone


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The Time I Went To A Bar Alone

My heart was beating 100 miles an hour, my palms were starting to sweat, and my breathing was getting heavy. A car honked at me, startling me out of my imminent panic attack. Shit. I had to pay attention to the road, I’d almost rear-ended the car in front of me. Chill out, I chided myself. It’s just a bar.

You see, this was the first time I was going to a bar alone. Sans friends, sans significant other. It was nerve-wracking. I had no idea where this courage was coming from, but I was determined to ride it out. My best friend and I had already decided that a little black dress was the appropriate attire for this endeavor. But mid-sexifying, I realized that wasn’t the vibe I could pull at that moment (re: I needed to go to the gym). Instead, I donned a little black skirt, yellow sleeveless button-down, a school-girl sweater, and of course my trusty wedge-sandals that make my ass look juuuust tight enough. Throw on the jewelry, and the “I’m not wearing makeup” makeup, and I looked like… A couple hundred bucks. Maybe $300. Maybe.

Looking in the mirror, I had the ridiculous thought that I was getting all dolled up for myself (#damngirl), but let’s be real: I am kind of on the prowl.

Next up: venue. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to go to an actual bar-bar. Plus my stomach reminded me that it’s a needy, little fucker with a sweet tooth, so the local Cheesecake Factory was calling my name. A quick Google search deemed it appropriate to hit the bar scene with the 5:30pm after-work crew, but it was already like 8pm, so that was no bueno. Screw it, I decided to go around 10:15pm. Early enough to function, and late enough that the families would most likely not be there. Was I going to eat, or just drink? LOL. Eat.

With all that figured out, all that was missing was my cover story. I decided I was going to pull the old “my-friend-was-supposed-to meet-me-here-but-she’s-having-boy-drama-so-she’s-ditching-le-sigh…” Believable, right?

Yanking my not-slutty-slutty black skirt back down over my thighs (when did they get so voluptuous?), I flounced over to the entrance, almost face-planted when I tripped over an imaginary obstacle, and yanked the door open. Part one, complete. While my eyes adjusted to the near-complete darkness (bonus), I squinted around the restaurant until I could locate the bar. It was tucked in a corner (strike one), and the bartenders were not the Adonis-like divinities I had expected (strike 2). Resigned to stick it out, I plopped down at the bar and looked around. THREE female single patrons smiled back at me. Shit, I cursed again. Where are the men? And also, how are these women brave enough to come here alone? Oh wait, I did.

One of the bartenders casually dropped a menu in front of me. (Well, not really. I reached over the bar and grabbed it, but same difference, right?) I perused it for a while, trying to determine if I should be like the classy lady to my right and order a lemony margarita or McSmiley to my left, who was noshing on some delicious avocado egg rolls and a red wine. Decisions, decisions.

“Would you like a drink, miss?” The bartender prompted. Damn, already??

“Yes, I’ll have a strawberry margarita!” I all but yelled back. Shit, bring down the volume, my inner voice commanded. “Please,” I added at a normal tone. He looked at me funny (was my makeup off?) and did some snazzy, fancy, drink-making magic, and plopped my very pink drink in front of me.

It was the best fucking strawberry margarita I’d ever had. And sadly, that was the highlight of my big-girl night out. Well, that and the ‘Snickers Bar Chunks and Cheesecake’ cheesecake. Who needs a man? Let them have cake.

Image via Shutterstock


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