How some people are not going to ever get engaged like their friends did

Posted on January 11, 2007

7


Yesterday two of my closest friends celebrated their engagement at Sequoia – mabrouk yo! On my way there I got a phone call from E, who under the mistaken impression that we are dating, instructed me to order for her so that when she arrived her food would be right there in front of her seat. In my purse I already had this makeup I bought her from Kuwait, so she could apply it right there at the party. So I ordered for the two of us, causing the waiter to clearly doubt my mental health. I assured him that a real person WAS coming, but every now and then he would ask if the person was here yet. I was tempted to point to the empty cushion beside me and say “aho, mish shayfo wala eh?” but decided against it.

Much drinking, laughing, and fooling around ensued. Unaccustomed nice clothes were deployed. I was delighted to finally view some alleged friends I’ve been hearing about for six months…I had accused my friends of creating imaginary friends to account for all their numerous foibles, sayings, and inside jokes, just to fuck with me. At one point, under the auspices of an inebriated groom, the two ends of the table undertook a “Whoo!”ing competition. The other end won (they had more people!). A few minutes later I was on my way to the bathroom when a shisha guy leaned in and quietly said in my ear as I passed him: “Whoo.” This was a good 100 metres away from our table. Good times.

At one point, a throughly wasted guy someone had introduced me to sat down next to me and began to rather awkwardly attempt to interest me in himself. He asked me what kind of music I was into in so urgent a tone that I knew it wasn’t just an “I want to get to know you” opening gambit. Having pretended to listen to my answer, he went on a spiel about how he was a singer and sang folk songs he wrote himself and the like. I was mildly interested in this (what with Egypt being full of conformist boring bitches) and even managed not to throw up when he informed me that he wanted to sing for me. Having imbibed a few myself, I was not enjoying my customary ability to depress the pretensions of undesired men, so I gave him my phone number even though I had no interest in him whatsoever. Three of my friends leered at us with undisguised amusement across the table during this exchange, wiggling their eyebrows, their eyes shining with impending ridicule.

At the end of the evening we were all standing around outside trying to dispose of everyone safely, when Dude offered to take me home. He insisted that he was not drunk (despite having to have a glass gently pried from his hand by a waiter at the restaurant door), and tried to hustle me to his car – more than once – while I insisted that we should wait for the bride, who lives near me and might not have any other way of getting home. He ignored this and offered the following justification for why I should ignore my concerns about his sobriety: the ride would, apparently, be “inspiring”. Also, he was going to “take my breath away”. When I asked whether this approach had ever worked with girls he responded with attempted smoothness, “Is it working on you?”

Aghast, I gaped at him, and my friend Tourism Girl said to him “Wow, you’re gross!”. Just how pretentious and bedan neik can guys allow themselves to be while pursuing women? I informed him that what I looked for in a ride was safety and that I would probably fall asleep immediately, to which he responded that he would put on soothing music. I also said I had a boyfriend. This is not exactly true, although I do have a guy of undetermined romantic status who could be construed as a boyfriend. I then moved away and told my friends that he was creepy and drunk and they swept me away from him and into someone sober (and somewhat less creepy’s) car.

That, alas, was not the end of Creepy McDylan. He sent me a text today apologizing for his freaky behaviour citing drunkenness and euphoria, songs playing in his mind, and that I was “really fine”. While I accept the latter as true (of course!) – at least it was yesterday – I can only wonder at what thought process results in “songs were running through my head” being 1) any sort of good reason for anything 2) a non-lame thing to say to a girl. In response to my playing-stupid “who are you?” text he replied that the Bruce Springsteen song Thunder Road would help me understand why he was so persistent. The lyrics of this song are wildly unflattering, and killed the remaining smidgeon of interest I had in being polite to what was, after all, a tall and handsome-ish man. Check it:

Don’t turn me home again, I just can’t face myself alone again
Don’t run back inside, darling you know just what I’m here for
So you’re scared and you’re thinking
That maybe we ain’t that young anymore
Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night
You ain’t a beauty, but hey you’re alright

All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow
Hey what else can we do now?

Well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk
And my car’s out back if you’re ready to take that long walk
From your front porch to my front seat
The door’s open but the ride it ain’t free
And I know you’re lonely and there’s words that I ain’t spoken
…Mary climb in
It’s a town full of losers and I’m pulling out of here to win.

Nice. So now I’m a desperate, aging, unattractive trailer trash girl somewhere in Nashville or some other unsavoury destination who has to settle for Mr. Outlaw-can’t-be-tied-down-guitarist, who doesn’t even like me that much, to take me away from my misery with his music and powerful car. What was the guy thinking?! I informed him of the deeply unflattering nature of the song and that I wasn’t interested in him and that, hopefully, will be the end of it. God.

Advertisements