The Slump—it's not just for sports anymore

I’m trying to figure out why I’m now in the biggest dating slump of my adult life. Could it be that I’ve suddenly lost all social skills and have become a social pariah? Bad juju? Bad breath? Global warming? Maybe it’s because I don’t meet a lot of guys in my kitchen. (I can hear it now, “What’s a babe like you doin’ in a dump like this? Obviously not floors and windows.”) I guess I really haven’t been getting out much.

My friends Patti and Matt apparently thought so too because they wrangled me out of my cave for Saturday’s Beerfest at Quivey’s Grove. “Oh look! We have an extra ticket! You MUST come. There’s a whole group going that’s very fun!” Free ticket. Limitless beer. Best part: the wonderful people that are Patti and Matt I haven’t spent nearly enough time with of late. Sure. I’ll come out of hibernation for that.

We all met at Monkeyshines, a bar about a mile from QG. This allowed us to throw down some food to serve as belly primer for the beer, and also provided convenient parking and avoidance of the traffic crush. The group seemed nice, and of course it was great to see P&M. Once we were primed, we made the stroll to Quivey’s. OMG! WHAT a day! Crystal blue skies, temps in the high 60’s—it was a rush just to be outside.

The abundance only increased when we arrived. Twenty-five breweries at twenty-five tables giving out multiple flavors of beer on tap. It was better than an alcoholic Baskin Robbins. I kept running into friends and acquaintances I hadn’t seen in awhile. (Could The Cave be the culprit?) We exchanged hugs, told our stories, caught up with each others’ lives.

Standing under a tree with the gold and red of the season burning bright, I got into conversation with one of Matt’s friends. Days before, Patti had mentioned, with strong implied meaning, that some of Matt’s single friends would be in our group. I probably said something like, “Oh cool” or some other how-nice externality that interprets to something like, “Oh yeah? So what? Big deal.” As we talked, I had a hard time hanging on to my cynicism. He was smart. Interesting. Seemed like one of those people who has a core of solid decency fueled by a certain dynamism that makes it appealing rather than admirable-but-boring.

In our first 10 minutes of conversation, he invited me to go on a Dec ’05 Argentina mountain-climbing expedition. I called his bluff and accepted. I’ve never had good luck with guys who early on offered sweeping invitations for major future events. However, if someone I knew little or none said, “I’m going to Antarctica for Christmas. Do you want to go?”, I’d jump at that too. I was never good at passing up the potential for adventure. He did have the good grace to get my phone number.

It’s been so long since I’ve had the luxury of The Man Thing—that masculine presence in a social situation where there is some mutual interest, and that “Y” chromosome gives off an aura that’s stronger than musk. A drug I’ve been off for awhile. I had to make a conscious effort to get away—seek out the porta-potties, find other people to talk to, try a new beer—anything to avoid just standing there glassy-eyed, getting fix after fix and giving this man the impression that I had become a permanently-affixed barnacle on his ass.

Despite or because of having gone on countless dates in my lifetime, it becomes no less awkward, no less exciting, no less confounding to wonder if the phone will actually ring. Although the Quivey’s meeting was tantalizing, I expected nothing. Hoped a bit. But didn’t really do the Miracle on 34th Street “I believe” thing. After three days, I’m assuming my phone number has been deep-sixed. You can’t expect the cynicism to melt in one easy lesson on a clear afternoon with a wealth of beer. But damnit! Barry Bonds never went this long without a hit.