In the Line of Fire

So, over the course of the last few weeks, a few friends and I had been planning a wonderful birthday extravaganza to include dinner and drinks out in various drinking establishments throughout greater Atlanta.  Atlanta really has a lot to offer three chickadees looking to get into some PG-13 rated fun.  Being the only true Singleton of the group, I immediately recognized the Wing Woman potential in the gathering; considering neither of my friends would be looking for love, they could provide me with the extra sets of eyes, extra discerning abilities, barriers against unwanted attacks approaches, and a clearer interpretation of attraction if, in fact, I were to become inflicted with beer goggles.  With the plan being to enjoy dinner at a local restaurant followed by an evening of shenanigans at a local bar that I used to frequent in my college days, the odds were in my favor.

Because my brain is quite possibly the strangest thing I've ever come in contact with, I tend to absorb things that I'm contemplating or planning into my subconscious and then dream about them randomly.  A few days before this birthday gathering, I had a wonderful dream that I was engaged in quite an inappropriate scenario with a gentleman at this local watering hole.  Because I used to keep it in business every Friday night for about two years, I remember it vividly and could almost walk you directly to the spot at which this lovely encounter took place...in my head.  I remember being quite impressed with my Singleton Skills because I didn't even know his name but had somehow, unbeknownst to me, managed to convince him that locking lips in the burgundy-carpeted hallway was a great idea all without even exchanging introductions.  Although the dream was short, I had slight hope that it might be prophetic.  Needless to say, I was optimistic about Saturday evening.  Until...well...I'll keep going.

Once the night arrived, our well-laid plans, like they always seem to do, got thwarted.  When we arrived at the bar that I just knew held the guy who wanted to make out with me in the hallway buy me a drink, my dream was literally dashed as we discovered that we'd arrived on a night where apparently "the greatest country band on the scene right now" (direct quote from the older guy in line behind us) was playing and charging an astronomical cover charge.  Although none of us are math geniuses, we figured out almost down to the penny how many beers said cover charge could purchase us elsewhere, and I said goodbye to my Dream Man.  Man of my dream.  Man who was in my dream...who very well may not have existed.  Whatever.  We left.

Now, when I get together with friends of the female persuasion, we tend to talk.  A lot.  Which usually leads to driving direction mishaps.  Somehow, after about thirty minutes of trying to decide which bar at which to hang our hats, we ended up halfway across town and stopped at the first bar we came across.  An up-and-coming sports bar chain in Atlanta that features scantily clad women, it seemed an odd choice at first, but eventually we settled into our draft beers in front of four televisions all featuring different collegiate football games.  Target rich environment.  We were surrounded by men, most of which were ring-less, almost all of which were drinking.  Occasionally, a guy at the table behind us would loudly pipe up with some piece of pop culture reference or question that he would find highly amusing and was obviously intended to garner him some attention.  Since we were the only ladies in the room, it became immediately clear that these outbursts were being directed at us.  As Mr. Gunslinger (explanation to come) approached our table and pulled up a chair uninvited, it became even more clear that the tables had now turned.  Previously, I had been the Singleton on the hunt, with control in her corner and two friends to help guide the process who could not interfere or relish any attention for themselves because of their Coupledom statuses.  Now, I was the Lone Ranger...the only girl at the table who was on the market.  I was doomed.

Mr. Gunslinger was clever, I will give him that.  His opening line challenged us to help him solve a bet between him and his other two (much more attractive, although still borderline unattractive) friends.  They'd supposedly tried to guess what pets we all had at home.  My equally clever friends and I then turned this tidbit into an assessment of how they view us from a distance and the conversation commenced.  It was quickly established that I was the only Singleton and immediately was in Mr. Gunslinger's cross-hairs.  He told me how they'd been to a shooting range eight hours before and had spent the rest of the day in the bar watching football.  Stupidly I made conversation and said that I had always been fascinated by the concept of a shooting range and thought it would be an amazing stress relief.  Within seconds, he asked me if he could take me to one.  Reeling this back into the normal zone, I said something along the lines of being nervous about guns (not true) to steer the conversation away from date-like topics.  He promised me (about ten times) that "when we went," safety would be first.  I was tempted to remind him that he didn't know me, and I could easily have an "accident," but I suppressed the instinct.  Very courteous and friendly, but ridiculously over the top in his story-telling and character-building references, Mr. Gunslinger successfully blocked either of his friends from almost any type of communication with us and hijacked almost every second of the conversation. 

Nothing too bad, right?  I know that's what you're thinking.  I was thinking that too until we reached the Creeper Factor.  Suddenly I noticed a repeated arm/knee touching during conversation.  We ladies are pretty good at reading our own instincts here, and I knew right away that this touching was unwanted.  Then he asked me outright if I was conservative (why?).  I shared my political affiliation (dumb) and told him, after some prodding on his part, that I was a fan of Fox News (don't judge me...this is not a political forum and is an essential part of this story!).  After a brief line of questioning probably to establish exactly how far to the right I fell on the linear political spectrum, he told me that he couldn't wait to wake up in the morning and watch Fox & Friends (Fox News' morning show) with me.  And he was serious.  He commenced to also tell my friend that he was sure that our mishap that resulted in our arrival at this particular bar was an intervention of fate, when in fact it was more to do with an out-of-date GPS and a lot of chit-chat.  He offered to buy us all "celebratory" shots (not quite sure what we were celebrating...fate, maybe?) and when I politely refused because I had to drive over an hour to get home (safety first), he offered that his friend, who hadn't really been allowed to be a part of our gathering, would be happy to drive me halfway across the state.  The friend resisted and Mr. Gunslinger announced at full volume "You wouldn't drive the love of my life home?!"  The love of his life.  He was not kidding, Singletons.  Not for one second.  Ask my friends.  He was so serious.

Somehow we managed to escape the restaurant quickly and made a bee-line for the car.  But, Mr. Gunslinger was quick on the draw and ran up to the car, calling out to me to wait.  Being the cautious Singleton that I have learned to be, I left the car door open as my friends waited inside.  He insisted that I shut it and began to tell me how much he'd like to take me out, to see me again, to hang out, to watch Fox News and every other possible means of "together" he could think of.  Uncomfortable enough already, he then announced that he was going to give me his phone number.  I thought 'oh, yes, an out.  I get his number and go about my merry way.'  Wrong.  I told you he was clever.  He insisted that I get my phone, program his number in it and then call him immediately so that he would have my number right then.  No tricking this guy, someone who has obviously received his fair share of fake phone numbers. Once my poor, innocent phone number was a part of his address book, he asked me if I texted.  Dear sweet Lord.  I do text.  That message has obviously spread around Singledom like wildfire. Strangely enough, as this interlude was taking place, his "friends" got in a truck he claimed was his and sped off, leaving him in the parking lot.  Once I got in the car, unscathed but announcing how much I hated my life at that moment, he knocked on the driver's window and pretended he was pulling my friend over.  She was in the parking space.  In park.

Luckily, Mr. Gunslinger has not graced my phone with any text messages, voicemails or references to early morning television.  Haven't we talked about this before, that I need to be more specific in my dreams or requests for male attention?  Do I need to make a list?!?  Because I surely got the attention that I was asking for, just from the last person within a 100 mile radius from whom I would have wanted it. Obviously I need to set some parameters so that when said dreams come to reality, I'm a bit less turned off.  Mr. Gunslinger was, in my opinion, the living, real world version of the online daters who want to get married after the first meeting.  I can't win.  I just want a normal guy.  Where are all the normal guys?!

My life has turned into various and oddly placed episodes of blog material.