Date 05 - Grinder
The Scene: Singles meet-up called “The Anti-Valentine’s Day Party.”
The Attire: Jeans, blouse, cropped jacket, and stilettos.
The Meeting: Observing the crowd at this Atlanta singles meet-up thinking, “I made a mistake” – it was full of people I did not connect or understand their observed behaviors.
The Environment: A bar with a country-western feel but an eccentric crowd and horrible music that didn’t fit into a genre.
I actually forgot that I signed up for a few meet-ups, and a reminder email alerted me into action. The name and the description piqued my interest: The Anti-Valentine’s Day event.
First thought: “creative name.”
Second thought: “why not?”
I go directly to the website and look at the photos from the previous year. It looked promising, and the reviews raved about it being the best single event of the year (eyebrow slightly raised, cynicism alert). My self-talk, “I am in town. My evening is open. My friends will have one excuse or another as to why they can’t go, so, Self, why not?”
I spent all Saturday doing what my heart desired. This day, it was Redbox movies, junk food, and multiple naps. In that order, I do believe.
The alarm rang at 7:00 pm, and I started to scour my overflowing closest for an outfit that conveyed what I was feeling – I am open, ready, fun, energized, and up for a dating adventure.
I drove up to the establishment in the northern suburbs of Atlanta. I had a difficult time finding a parking space that conveyed promise. There were ample cars in the parking lot, there was spillover from the inside out, and the place itself looked decent enough. I eventually find a parking space, back in (as usual), end my telephone call, grab my clutch and high step my way into the awaiting doors of possibility.
Upon entry, I see men over 65 and in primary-colored suits #orangeisnotthenewblack.
My self-talk began immediately, “Girl, go to the bathroom, get yourself together, stroll through the place, be OPEN!” So, I do.
The place is filled with the complete opposite of what I like, and the crowd was of a more mature age (which is fine, but if I were a betting gal, I would say over 80% of those in attendance were retired). I ordered a glass of water that never came, glanced around the crowd, and thought, “There is a Lifetime Movie awaiting my emotions.” I head confidently to the door, proud I gave it a healthy and determined 20-minute try.
As I stepped out the double doors, heading in the direction of my car, I hear a voice to my right, “You are leaving already?”
I look over, and it’s a gentleman standing 6’3” with a huge Colgate smile approaching me from the parking lot. Startled, I replied with a solid, “Yes, I had my fill for the evening.”
We engage in small talk, and he pleads, “Come in with me and have one drink!”
Me: “I don’t drink but thank you!”
Him: “It doesn’t have to be alcohol, just one drink. It will be fun, I promise.”
Me: (In heavy contemplation).
Him: “I just moved here from California, and I don’t know a soul. One drink!”
Me: “Ok.”
Him: “I must warn you I am a Muslim but a rebel, I drink alcohol.”
Me: “Self, don’t judge,” as I follow in behind him (contradictory in his presence).
Once inside, he finds an open space for us to engage in conversation. We stood alongside a brick wall, and I ordered a Sprite (which I rarely consume as I am more of an H2O girl) while he ordered a New Castle. Our waitress was fun, jovial, and engaging, which we both thoroughly enjoyed.
We talked about everything from California to Ethiopia, engineering to marketing, politics to family, and his receding hairline. Now, let me share why I am sharing that:
Out of the blue, he says, “I am thinking about hair implants.”
Me: “Ok.”
Him: “What do you think,” he queries as he pulls part of his receding hairline forward.
Me: “Whatever you think is best.” I asked him, “Have you ever considered going bald?”
Him: “I would never do that!”
Me: “Why not?”
He cups his hand over his head to create a mock bald style
Me: “Yes, try it!”
Him: “Hhmmm, I am not bothered by my hairline at all.’
My self-talk: “What?!? Then why bring it up?”
Now that was perplexing and led to an intentional question, “Perhaps he is not comfortable in his own skin, but how would that manifest itself and show up if he was coupled?”
After the hair fiasco, he begins to summarize his love for and the origin of Blues. That led to him to demonstrate some constrained dance moves, which I was forewarned, “I had not seen anything yet.” He starts to brag about his dance skills and how he dances from his heart and loves to get down. I reply with a bewildered and slightly sarcastic, “Ok, wow!”
He then invites me to witness his skills by venturing to another place he promised would be incredible and played music more conducive to dancing. For context, the current place was loud, bar-centric, and had a band that was not hitting a single cord.
After much bantering and negotiation, I agreed and promised to dance and stay for the duration of five songs.
I followed his car, in my car, to another restaurant/lounge less than 5 minutes away from the place I met him. Upon spotting the first parking space, he took it and left me looking for a vacancy. That was one rub.
He got out of his car, watched me walk from the furthest parking space in the back of the lot, and waited for me at the sidewalk entrance. Together, we walked inside. The vibe of the second spot was nice, the music was incredible, and the people were ready to have a good time. He ordered a drink; I ordered nothing. We strolled onto the small dance floor, which resembled a see-through box with strobe lights bouncing from corner to corner. I promised I would give him five songs, and then I had to go as I needed to catch an early flight the next morning.
Side Note: I love to dance, and I can dance.
The music was fast-paced and on point. I was definitely in my groove. He, on the other hand, had a groove, but it was missing the target. He was flailing, arms all over the place. He grabbed my hand, interlocking fingers, and attempted to grind on me. So, my list begins:
First, I don’t know you so please don’t touch me
Second, I don’t know you so please don’t sweat on me
Third, I don’t know you so please don’t grind on me
Fourth, I don’t know you so please don’t corner me like I owe you something
Fifth, that is my last song, and I am out
The Grinder looked at me and stated, “You have my number, so call me!”
I looked at him, perplexed, and said, “Have a great night!” (thinking, Grinder, that is never going to happen!)
I walked away from the dance floor (alone), through the bar, out the doors, and into my car. I enjoyed a peaceful ride back to the city, grateful I tried.
Note to Self: If I don’t know you – I see everything wrong with a little bump and grind.
Shout Out to Men: Before you grind, keep in mind that not all bodies are open for business.
Question: Why is physical touch a default setting?
