Surviving a Singles Event

I was set up with L., a friend of a co-worker, because we were two single women amongst our coupled off friends. No, no, not a date, but because L. wanted to attend a wine tasting and the wine tasting was also a "Singles" event, I was recruited to accompany her. I had already made tentative plans that night, but since those plans involved meeting a group of friends in a sweaty bar and there was a guarantee a former flame would be there, I was itching for a different alternative. In other words, I said YES before I thought through what a Singles event might entail.

L. told me the event was semi-formal, okay, we were in the midst of a rare heat wave and I could pull out a skirt from the back of the closet, hell, it might be fun to show off that pedicure I got a week ago, and so what if I looked a little a lumpy in my knit top, I was still a "hot bitch", at least my friend, R., told me to tell myself this every morning, preferably while naked and listening to Aretha Franklin. She said it worked for her... and well, she is a hot bitch, so I was trying to think along those lines.

L. picked me up, we were both decked out in our dresses and heels. Of course, I should mention she is 5'3" and wears heels every day and walks like she could run a marathon in them. I am 5'9 and I tottered on my cheap strappy heels from Target, worn for the second time though I owned them for 2 years. The wine tasting event was at the Yacht Club, (woohoo!), I envisioned standing on the balcony watching the setting sun while a tuxedoed Clive Owen type sidles up and we watch the dramatic sunset beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, yes, this night had potential! The $25 ticket price was insurance men of quality would be there, aficionados of fine wine, and yachtsmen, nonetheless, I was actually excited. No more sweaty night clubs full of twenty-somethings for me! This was going to be my coming out party to the world of sophisticated professional singles, even the name of the group was impressive "The Professional Guild"... well, that should have been the tip off, I should have known better.

First we got the location wrong... there are two yacht clubs at the Marina. We parked and I tried to keep up with L.'s quick short steps. My feet already hurt after two minutes of walking, but it was okay... soon that Clive Owen type would be rubbing my feet...

The swanky yacht club was the wrong one, when we saw a group of women in semi-formal attire turned away and looking lost, we knew that our function was being held at the funky yacht club way at the end of that dusty, gravel road ahead. We forged on.

Despite the heat wave I was chilled by the sea breeze and my feet were quickly swelling up walking the uneven path, I started to notice a parade of women, most at least ten years older then us heading toward the building. Eyeing this parade of courageous gals, were men, men sitting in their cars, men talking to other men, lone men reeking of cologne. It wasn't long before I started to feel like a group of whores marching along the gravel road in our ridiculous heels to be scrutinized by these jackals, the clientèle. (So, that's where they got the name "The Professional Guild"?)

I felt sorry for us. Grown women, middle-aged, excited by the prospect of meeting Mr. Right, desperation trailing us like cheap perfume, trying to smile, trying to look confident and sexy and for what? These men! There wasn't a Clive Owen among them, they were awkward, leering, in various stages of paunchiness and baldness, cracking stupid jokes as we waited in line to get in. I started to feel increasing uncomfortable. I kept looking over at L. trying to catch her eye. Finally out of the corner of my mouth, I said "What do you think?" She seemed bewildered, we kept moving forward in line. "Does the $25 covering the tastings?" She wasn't sure, she said she would ask when we got to the front.

I didn't know L. very well, and since I had promised to go with her, I felt I must. I wasn't about to leave her alone, besides she was my ride home, there was no way I could walk back to the main road in these shoes to get a cab. Please, I prayed, I want to leave now.

The line was on a staircase so you could look back and see everyone looking up, the collective comb-overs and bald spots, even one misplaced skinny pony-tailed man with an odd handlebar mustache, leathery, over bronzed complexions, Geez, were they licking their lips? No, no, I was being paranoid. Ahead we could see into the Yacht Club, the bar where a gaggle of men sat and stared at the fresh meat paying for their tickets. They all looked like they drove into the City from Stockton, no offense to Stockton, I don't know who lives there, but these were not sophisticated men, these were guys who, face it, had a very hard time meeting girls and were here for the easy pickings.

We finally made it up to the ticket table and I told L. I didn't want to stay unless the wine tastings were included, as if somehow that would redeem the evening. The answer, no, nothing was included, but they had a DJ and hor dourves. I whispered to L., "This is San Francisco, there are hundreds of bars with DJs with no cover." She looked at me and for a horrifying split second, I thought she wavered, but then she said firmly "Let's go!" We paraded back down the staircase, past the leering stares of the desperate and unloved, past the dirty gravel road and the heavily cologned stragglers still coming towards the line. I felt free, young and relieved I wasn't one of them.

We were a couple of hot bitches and we went out the town in our skirts and heels and bought our own damn drinks at a swanky bar. I ended up getting to know a pretty interesting person that night. One who is not desperate at all, one who I will go out with again. Her name is L.