Charming, but single

So, say you were shopping for your younger (24) brother’s girlfriend and (probable) future fiancée. And you need a present that says, "I’m sorry my brother is a dirty hippie who would rather wear Birkenstocks and an old Phish T-shirt than get dressed up and shave and take you out to dinner, but I really do like you and hope that you marry him some day because even though you are very different people, you complement each other very well and he is always so happy to be with you and we all know that he is a very sweet man and will be a good father one day and I swear I am going to be very happy on the INSIDE when you tie the knot, even though on the OUTSIDE I’ll be sitting in the corner of the reception mumbling into a champagne glass about being an Old Maid without a date to my own little brother’s wedding. Oh, also, Merry Christmas."

Note: I have previously given her a gift basket of relaxation and beauty products and a scent diffuser ( like this one, but more expensive) and various members of my family throughout the years have gifted many picture frames and journals and candle sets.

Also, I’ve got a long shopping list. Less than $50. (And $50 could be pushing it.)

Welcome Glamour.com readers and much thanks to Alyssa Shelasky for the shout out on her blog See Alyssa Date on Glamour’s Web site. I was shocked – shocked – to see 400 to 500 extra readers today.

Go visit Alyssa’s blog, where you can vote on her every dating move, and tell her that being evil makes for better blogging.

After I left the show at the dive bar, I headed over to my regular cigar bar for a glass of red with Prom Date. I’d planned to do this all along – my other friends aren’t night owls as I am. While they turned into pumpkins at midnight, I was still looking for some fun.

As previously discussed, I looked cute – sheerish wrap top over a camisole, jeans, pointy heels and smooth hair, thanks to the bitter cold that scared away the humidity. I didn’t check my cell for texts before heading into the cigar bar, so I had no idea that The Blackberry had been asking for me. (Until I later checked my phone and saw a cautionary text from Prom Date. Too late. I was already in the bar.)

“Well there she is,” The Blackberry commented as I walked in. I was mildly horrified that the only barstool left was next to him.

“And she sits next to me.”

I rolled my eyes and ordered a Merlot. The Blackberry immediately started his pursuit in full force – complimenting me, doling out mild insults immediately followed by “I’m kidding! Just kidding, baby!”

I was having none of it and tried to maintain the cold exterior I keep up so well when he is around. The best offense is a good defense, especially when you’re dealing with a terribly offensive guy who will stop at nothing to bed you and any other woman in a skirt who walks into the bar.

The Blackberry made a point to speak of text messages from another woman who needed a ride home – joking that she needed more than just “a ride in my car, if you know what I mean.” He was clearly trying to bait me into showing some jealousy, though it clearly wasn’t working. As I clicked through some late-night e-mails on my blackberry, The Blackberry complained that I never texted him.

“I don’t have your number.”

“I’m only going to tell it to you one time,” he said, and then told me his number. I responded by sliding my blackberry and cell phone back into my purse.

“What was that?” I teased.

He repeated himself. Realizing that I wasn’t taking the number down, he showed me that he had me in his blackberry – but only the address I use for junk mail and online personals.

“See, I have your information.”

“You also have my blackberry number and e-mail address,” I informed him. “So, no, I don’t feel bad about not texting you. You’ve had my number for months. Because there is a process.”

He paid his tab and leaned over so that only I could hear him. In the lowest of voices, he made his final serious plea.

“You know you want to come home with me.”

“No.”

“You do, I know you do. You want me.”

“No.”

“You just live across the street.”

“No.”

Defeated, he stood up and announced that he was going to pick up the woman who’d been begging for a ride home. He made reference to a local figure, a notorious playboy, and said, “You know why he got a lot of women? Because he didn’t let rejection get him down. Nine out of 10 women may say no. But one will say yes.”

He paused as he stood up and walked over to shake hands with Prom Date.

“The law of averages,” he said, looking at me.

And then he walked back over to me.

“You were giving me this look like you were upset that I didn’t kiss you goodbye,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and turned my cheek, denying him a kiss on the lips. He wrapped an arm around me for a hug, but I looked forward and did not acknowledge it.

As he left, his friend said, “You do realize that he just called you a statistic, right?”

“I know.”

“And that was a pretty good line about needing to give you a goodbye kiss,” his friend said. “It caught you off guard and you didn’t have time to protest.”

At this point, the female bartender had to step in.

“Oh please, that is a terrible line,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Notice that she didn’t jump up and go home with him.”

“Amen, sister,” I said as I leaned over the bar to give her a high five.

“That guy, sitting behind you, is cute,” I told my married friend. We’d settled into a table and in the group sitting nearby was a guy I’d spotted at the crowded bar earlier. He was most decidedly my physical type, which is so certain that my friends could point to the men I’m checking out at any given moment in any given situation. He was tall, broad-shouldered and stocky with dark hair.

She glanced over her shoulder and spied an older man. I shook my head no and talked her through the crowd until her gaze landed on the gentleman of the hour.

She nodded in agreement as I straightened up in my chair and coyly played with a section of my hair, trying to casually make eye contact and draw his attention.

A few minutes into this game of me silently willing him to notice me — a technique that I have much hope for, though it has been largely unsuccessful thus far — he stood up and left his table. As he walked by, my friend’s husband leaned over to me and interrupted my thoughts, which at this point consisted of if I could trip this guy and make it look like an accident so that he would notice me and fall madly in love.

“See that guy walking by?”

“Yes …” I answered, planning to continue with, “Isn’t he hot!”

My friend’s husband interrupted me, “That guy, he is a total ASS.”

I slumped back into my seat and shook my head, my dreams of innocent injury causing love halted by cruel reality.

“Of course he is.”

“Well, THAT was an experience,” the Older Woman said as she exited the stall in the subpar restroom facilities of the dive bar where I was Friday night.

For some crazy reason, a singer of Rat Pack-style music that we adore plays his yearly Christmas show at this hole-in-the-wall joint. The show attracts an odd mix of revelers – groups of people in their mid 20s, couples in their thirties and forties and gray-haired folks who like to relive their past days by dancing circles around us young whippersnappers.

“Yes, the restrooms leave something to be desired,” I said, as I ran my fingers through my hair.

“Well, I guess I can’t complain. I’m 65. Back in the day we went into the mens’ room in bars because the line was shorter.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that now. A lot of bars only have troughs,” I said, smiling.

“Really!”

“Yes.”

“May I ask how old you are?”

“Almost 27,” I said. I had moved from hair to lipstick.

“Honey, I have two children, 32 and 19. I’ve lived all of the stages of your lives.”

“It only gets better, right?”

“Oh yeah, honey, it only gets better,” she said, a grin spreading across her face. She didn’t look many days over 50. She was wearing plum denim slacks and a tan jacket and her hair showed no gray.

I straightened the straps of the camisole that peaked out from under my wrap-style top.

“That’s a very nice shirt,” she said. “It looks pretty on you.”

“Thank you,” I said as I continued my adjustments. “But the camisole doesn’t stay in place and then it dips down too low.”

“Well, honey, that’s because oh … you know …” she trailed off as she motioned to her chest.

“And as someone who never really had much in that department, I must say, they are nice,” she continued.

I was floored. I managed to stammer a “thank you” before heading out of the door.

I sat down at my table and turned to my friends.

“A 65-year-old woman in the bathroom just told me I have a nice rack,” I announced to my friends, who were equally floored that a stranger would compliment my breasts in the womens’ restroom.

“Did she use those exact words?” A friend’s husband asked.

“Not those words exactly. But close enough.” I said.

“On the bright side, at least if I got hit on by someone tonight.”