Fear and Loathing in Long Beach

Last night my mom, my sister Shannon, and I embarked on a mini-road trip to Long Beach to visit my other sister, Erin. It began as a perfectly pleasant evening in LBC. My family along with my sister’s roommate headed down to 2nd Street to get our grub on at a little Greek joint (which, incidentally, has the best Greek food on the planet, well maybe not better than in Greece, but by far the best Greek eats in Southern California). It was bumpin’, so we had to wait at the bar for a few minutes before being seated. I can’t be expected to be sitting at a bar and not order a drink, so Shannon & I got wine recommendations from the bartender while everyone else was led to a nearby table. As I sipped my Sauvignon Blanc while waiting to pay the bill, I spied an extremely attractive waiter towards the back of the restaurant. Now mind you, my definition of “extremely attractive” tends to differ from the average So Cal bimbette. Buffed and waxed Hollywood pretty boys do nothing for me. I like guys who are different and interesting looking and currently believe Evan Lysacek to be the absolute pinnacle of male physical perfection. But the type of gorgeousness possessed by Le Lysacek is rarely seen just walking down the street and I also dig on averagely cute boys (i.e. “beer commercial” guys), which would be a fair description of this waiter.

But then I had the sad and somewhat horrifying relation that somehow over the last few years, I’ve completely forgotten how to flirt. Don’t get me wrong, if a guy bounces the ball in my court, I’ll hit it back with the skill of a Wimbledon champion. Zero-love! It’s initiating the flirting that gives me the trouble. As much as I loathe, detest, despise, and curse the bullshit manifesto knows as He’s Just Not That Into You, I do think it’s anthem that if a guy is into you, he’ll definitely make it known has made many women (including myself) gun-shy about making any sort of first move. Thanks for setting us back to the Victorian Age, Greg Beherendt. Plus there is just something about being aggressive with a man that just seems inherently “cougarish” and I’m just not ready to go there yet. Check back with me when I’m forty, I may have changed my mind.

So anyway, I spent the bulk of the dinner with quick glances around the crowded restaurant, hoping to catch the waiter’s eye. No such luck. Not even a periphery acknowledgment. Really? Damn. I’m no model, but I’m not homely, nor am I invisible as evidenced by the one man whose eye I did manage to catch. Who is this international man of mystery, you ask? A wealthy Greek shipping heir? Hahahahahahaha. No. The approximately sixty-two year old guitar player sitting behind my mom whose lips were packing more meat than my plate of beef soulvlakia and who also bore a disturbing resemblance to my deceased great grandmother. That’s who thinks I’m sexy. With my thirty-second birthday fast approaching, this is not good news.

I’m gonna need a drink. Opa!