Originally published on Thumpcity.com

Blue Saturday Nights

"Another Saturday night, and I ain't got nobody…" the song lyrics blared
mockingly from the car radio. Who was the sadist that originally declared
Saturday evening a date night? She'd like to find the bastard and wring
his smug face atop his smug neck until he sang a different tune-in
soprano voce. The old cliché about pretty girls sitting in on Saturday
nights haunted her. She knew she was easy on the eyes--had been told so by
her friends, acquaintances, former lovers and mirror. And yet weekend
loneliness was her steadfast companion.

Her roommate had tripped out earlier on a date with some guy she'd met at
the grocery store. The Grocery Store?! She thought that only happened in
cheesy fashion rag mag advice articles: 50 Best Places to Meet Single
Men…The so-called electronic age had done nothing to dampen the desert
that had become her social life. She'd tried a few computer dates only to
realize that she was tired of feeling like a mutant while the guy across
the linguine stared openly with a baffled look as to why she was still
single. One rude jerk even went so far as to ask, "So, what's wrong with
you anyway?" Charming.

The parade of men blurred in her memory, none really distinguishing
himself much from the last except for a few minor details here and there.
Not that there had been that many--6 years of Catholic School had taken
care of junior high and high school. Chastity intact, she headed off to
University. College was a breakout time of fumbling at frat parties and in
dorm rooms…and in one unfortunate and very insect-infested case, the woods
behind some house keg party. Not exactly experiences worthy of notation in
the romance annals of history. When she gave up booze and subsequently,
bars--more for the empty calories than for the various associated health
hazards, her dating drought set in with a vengeance. And like the elderly
chatty woman on the bus in the seat next to you-it just wouldn't seem to
go away.

Her galpal with the office job and millionaire boyfriend complete with
yacht docked in Newport often chided her: "You never go out. How are you
supposed to meet a guy if you never go out?" "I do so go out" she'd mumble
back not wanting to get into it--again. About how she hated the bar scene
and the excruciating small talk it required and she'd inevitably evoke the
reply that those were just excuses and that she had a fear of intimacy. If
intimacy meant getting your ass groped by a sweaty drunken
stranger--then--yes--she was afraid. Besides which--unlike her friend who
categorized men in terms of how financially "liquid" they were--God love
her, she was holding out for something a little more meaningful. 

Hopeless romantic? Bridget Jones' disciple? Perhaps…She tried not to think
about it. But it bit her brain and heart on Saturdays. It wasn't chic to
want a man anymore…look at Anorexic McBeal--lambasted by every feminist
from here to eternity for wanting to get her some more of Robert
Down-another-pill-snort-another-line Jr. Yeah, yeah--I am woman hear me
snore, she thought with an invisible shrug. She was tired of people
telling her what she was supposed to want at age 30. The hubby, the baby,
the house, the mortgage, the SUV, the canine…Whatever. All her friends had
that stuff and it didn't exactly seem to make them swamis of joy and
everlasting bliss. So they had a standing date for Saturday night-big
deal.

She had something better--her freedom. Freedom to complain halfheartedly
while knowing in some deeper wiser place that she'd have the "stuff"…but
that when she had it, she'd appreciate it just a touch more…thanks in part
to these lone Saturdays. She'd cherish it for the hard-won and
long-awaited-for "prize" (not trophy) that it was. Because people weren't
trophies…things to collect on shelves for dust to settle in and make a
home on… People WERE liquid…but not in the way her friend meant about
men's wallets. They were changeable with a flow all their own and an
ability to splash into your life offering refreshment at the most
unexpected times and at the oddest moments…like in the famed produce aisle
over the artichokes. She'd wait for her rivulet to stream into another
tributary and together they'd head into the crashing ocean of life and
love and marriage and childbirth. And one thing was for sure-when she was
setting her wedding date in that vast and distant (or maybe not?)
future…it most certainly, without a doubt would NOT take place on a
Saturday.

 

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