Had to go to a wedding Saturday afternoon. Very beautiful, very proper, very LONG, very EXCRUCIATING Catholic wedding. On the way in, I noticed a very attractive young woman handing out the programs. No, not attractive; she was gorgeous. Figuring the guest book was not the best place to try out a pick up line, I made a mental note to find out more about her at the reception. So I sauntered in and put myself through Richard Simmons’ “Sweatin’ to the Wedding March” (Just an aside; if you’re a Protestant or a Jew or some other denomination, make sure you have a Catholic guideperson with you. They’re invaluable in helping you not look like an idiot when everyone starts standing and kneeling and sitting and standing and chanting and kneeling and putting their left foot in and putting their left foot out…), and six and a half hours later, went to the reception. I knew the bride and a few of her sisters and friends, so getting the background information was not hard at all. Her name is Leslie, she is 20, and they were fuzzy on whether or not she had a boyfriend (there wasn’t one with her all day, and I figured that a wedding was a required duty for a boyfriend). So, Dopers, anyone want to hazard a guess as to what her drawback was?
If you said Ecstasy freak, you guessed correctly. Apparently, this beautiful woman, who was very poiesed and looked not at all the type to indulge in such things, semi-regularly doses herself with mind altering chemicals. After I gathered this, I decided I wasn’t really up to introdcucing myself. I’m not sure if this was snobbery on my part or what, and there’s no guarantee that I won’t try to arrange a way to talk to her later, but I’m wondering if I perhaps made a mistake. I know plenty of people who smoke pot, and other than the fact I think they’re wasting money, I don’t think any less of them. Same for smokers. But there was something of a snap decision when I heard that that put me off. I’m thinking maybe I should consider this some more.
Flash forward to Saturday night, about 1:45 at the local meat market (the dance floor of The Spot, for you Spifflers). Yet another attractive woman, with a friend, stands about 15 feet away. I make eye contact one or two times, very prolonged eye contact, and am basically too chicken shit to do anything about it. Some meathead comes up to her and starts dancing with her (and man, she danced in a very pants-tightening way), and she still looks directly at me two or three more times. In other words, Dopers, I suck. Crunch time came along, and I couldn’t come through with the clutch shot.
So I’m vowing this. I’m going to force myself to converse with some strange woman this upcoming weekend with the focussed intent of getting a phone number or a date from her. If I post something resembling a blubbering pile of self-loathing next Monday, you’ll all know why.
Uh, so that was my weekend.