Margaritas, Mayhem, and Meagerly-Dressed Men

What happens when you mix three pitchers of highly-intoxicating margaritas, five flirty friends (including a wonderful gay work hubby), free blowouts and styling, unlimited drinks, and half-naked men dancing within three inches of you?

One hell of a hangover and one fabulous lesson about being a single gal in New York City.

With the kickoff for New York’s Fashion Week (where I enjoyed a lovely presentation from Timo Weiland), an online women’s magazine and deal/coupon site, The Luxury Spot hosted a Bachelorette Party that instead of celebrating the fact someone was ending their days of singleness, they invited people to commemorate that flying solo could just be beginning.

Intrigued by this spin on a typical girl’s night out that involves tiaras, phallic shot glasses, and bridesmaids drinking themselves into a depressed oblivion, I gathered a group of my favorites and headed to Chelsea to play tribute to my unaffiliated with a man relationship status.

Like most great evenings, the gang hit up a spot the work hubby, J and I discovered a few months ago where prices are cheap and the tequila is abnormally strong. Well, stronger than usual, anyways. In my leopard print pencil skirt that’s probably a tad too tight (but I rock it like its not), we devoured chips and salsa while discussing current events that really matter – like the Biebs and our anticipation for the Grammys, sexual positions that hit the right spot, and LLilo’s latest disaster. Filled with warmness – both from the great company and the green magical liquid – we hopped a cab to Juliet Supper Club, where we were greeted with many women (and men) dazzled to dance away and toast to The New York Singleland.

Once one of The Luxury Spot’s leading ladies led us out of the crowd and into the festively decorated space, the group found its way to the open bar – where all of the Southerners squealed over a drink named Scarlett O’Hara. The intention of the drink was rather clever and by about number two, when you swear a male dancer is locking eyes with you, you frankly, don’t give a damn.

Or at least I didn’t and that’s when from across a bedazzled room, as a Remington stylist curled my hair while I sipped my red concoction, I started doing The Look at a man I’ll call Mr. Thong.

Oh dear.

Of course, its part of his job to flirt with the lovely, eligible or taken ladies who feel a little less guarded than normal, but Mr. Thong formed some sort of strange attraction to me. Maybe not strange, but by my somewhat reserved upbringing in the rolling hill of North Carolina, seeing a man roll his peak in such an enticing (and hilarious) manner, was quite the experience. And being a newfound lover of my single title, was curious to nail the story. I mean, I heard this particular has his own bobble head and all – though I’m pretty sure my friends and I were more distracted by his other gyrating one.

After posing for a few pictures with us, where Mr. Thong attempted to liplock with me, I returned to my seat, where my friends and I, captivated by our first experience with nearly nude dancers, continued to snap pictures and well, giggle, continuously. As I was looking at the shots with my friend E, Mr. Thong came over to our booth and cuddled up next to me.

“So, my name is Mr. Thong. What’s yours?” He smiled, as the light reflected off of well-oiled, chiseled, and tan body. Even in my haze, I made a plea to someone (not sure who, at the time) that he didn’t get his goo (from any place) on my silk top. Ew.

Never mind my distraction of his stickiness, I was stunned by the fact this dancer-dude was speaking to me, I somehow managed to tell him my name, what I did, and hand him my business card. You know, the one with my phone number, email address, and link to this blog?

Smart move, Linds. Smart move.

My friends, equally tipsy from Scarlett O’Haras and the residue of margaritas a few hours earlier, found themselves hysterical over my willingness to entertain the entertainer and we cheered again to the absurdity of the evening.

After gathering our goodie bags and coats, and splitting a cab uptown, I thought about how long it took me to get to this place. To a place where I could freely let myself and my inhibitions go. Where I could enjoy an evening without expecting a phone number, without wondering if someone would hit on me, without hoping Mr. Right would be at the next door, the next bar, or the next street corner. That an interaction with Mr. Thong didn’t mean I’d met my match, but that I just had an interaction for the books. Or the blog, I suppose.

That instead of focusing on the fact I was alone, I relished that I had the opportunity to be selfishly fabulous with my friends and enjoy their smiles as much as I would ever enjoy the grin of a stranger. That without a man, without the desire for one, without valuing the validity of anyone’s approval or interest, I was still happy. If anything, I was happier to not be obsessing and not be upset about things that fate has a hold on anyways.

Walking a block to my apartment, shivering in the cold, my hair curled up something fierce, and designer stilettos carefully avoiding New York’s influx of black ice, I realized I was actually living a phrase I’d always sang and quoted, but never really embraced:

Sometimes, girls just wanna have fun. And J, too, of course.

Ya Gotta Stop Pushin’

In one of my favorite movies of all time, Mean Girls, Cady (Lindsay Lohan) infamously calls her teacher, Ms. Norbury (Tina Fey) a “pusher.” We all know she was referring to how she encouraged her in math class, but of course, it was construed into some sort of drug addiction –just like any other twist in any other teen movie.

All humor aside, I believe I’m a pusher. Not in math (ha –one class in college and I was done!) and definitely not with drugs, but with a little thing called l-o-v-e.

Every man I’ve ever dated, been in a relationship with, or been friends with has told me how much I need to relax. I can hear each of their voices, both in and out of the bedroom, saying “You worry too much, Linds. Just relax.”

I’m not quite sure I know how to do that.

I push at everything I do. My career, my writing, my looks, my fitness, my place in the world –my life is about pushing forward. And I’m the same way with relationships –hence this program and blog.

So how do I push in love? Let’s just give a few examples:

Scenario: Meet a Cute Boy, Exchange Cards

Love Pusher Actions: Thoroughly find any information I can about him using FacebookGoogleLinkedInTwitterblogs, etc. Search for additional pictures. Try to determine his birthday for my mom to look up (I know she’ll ask). Figure out when is exactly three days after we met so if he doesn’t contact, I can contact him. Attempt to remember something flirty/funny we talked about when we met to bring up cleverly if I have to contact him first.Nervously look at my phone until I get frustrated and make myself not look at my phone for an allotted amount of time. Same goes with Gmail.

Scenario: Met a Cute Boy, Exchange Cards, He Contacts Me

Love Pusher Actions: Start by casually responding and spacing out the amount between text messages or replies so I “appear busy”. Have casual conversation for about a day, then I get nervous and I want to set up an actual time to meet, so I drop hints. For example, “We should get a drink” or “Do you like coffee?” or “Man, I’m hungry!” or “Bored tonight, what are you up to?” and include winky faces when appropriate until he bites. If he doesn’t, I just get to the point and ask him myself.

Scenario: Met a Cute Boy, Exchange Cards, He Contacts Me, We Go Out

Love Pusher Actions: Date starts off well with witty chit-chat and I pick a drink or meal I could afford to pay for myself if he doesn’t happen to offer to pay. Conversation continues and if there’s a lapse in the banter, I feel the need to keep it going. This is when I pull out “21 Questions” or start integrating them. Yep, I bring out the journalist on a first date. I’ve ever played the “Truth or Dare” card, no lies. My mental check-list of qualities I look for in a mind needs to be completed, right?

Scenario: Getting Ready to Go Somewhere (Event, Bar, Party, Running)

Love Pusher Actions: I secretly plan out every possibility there could be for me to run into someone. That guy looked at me from across the subway car,should I get up and move seats? I’m going to this super-candle-lit bar that’s located on 33 West Broadway, that’s my favorite number, so is that a sign? I dreamt about a guy named Brian, and his name is Brian, now that’s a sign, right? I’m attending this business event tonight, is there a possibility I could meet The One? Isn’t that what the psychic said? Could this be the night? The day? The afternoon?


These are probably not the most becoming qualities, but they are incredibly and sadly true. Maybe I’m a pusher because I like to be in control or because I’d rather know what’s going on and prepare myself for whatever can happen. I guess I’m not a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants lady like I always hoped I’d grow up to be.

Step 3 is about surrendering all of these actions and thoughts to a higher power for it to remove for me. And I’m guessing (if I’m inferring correctly, here)–part of surrendering is allowing whatever is supposed to happen, happen. And it’s letting go. And it’s not being a control freak. And it’s definitely not being a love pusher.

They (as in all of those ridiculously annoying people in love/married/with baby) say the best things and “The Best Thing” happens when you’re not looking for it. When you’re eyes are open but not focused, your heart is ready, but not anticipant.

So surrendering gives all of my power away and makes me have to be chased instead of chasing or planning someone else in my life. Surrenderingmeans I have no clue of what’s going to happen –but as a pusher, I don’t know either.

Instead of pushing and fighting and organizing and strategizing…I’m just supposed to go with it.

Yep. Better get to it. What’s my plan for not planning?