If bar life was a television show, it would be “Wild Kingdom”. You know the drill: hunting, feeding, finding a prospective mate. No wonder we call going for a drink “meeting at the water-hole”. And just as there are an infinite number of TV shows showing bambi being breakfast for a bloody great house-cat, so bars will always be the Serengeti of the dating world.
Men love bar life because we have very short memories. Tonight (we reason) will be the night. Across the still water, in day’s last light, there sits our dream girl. She’s taking Cosmopolitans, gently sipping from the glass, aware only of the other females in her pride. Look at the way her ears twitch, alert for any sign of threatening activity. Hmmm, perhaps I’m taking this animal thing too far.
If the man has sufficient gumption, he will approach dream-girl, try to charm her with wit and erudition and risk the one thing we hate the most: rejection. This is where the memory-lapse is important. In order to walk up and talk to the cutey with the cleavage and curves, we must forget all previous rebuffs. And before commencing the hunt, we indulge in a little positive self-talk: we consider ourselves Brad just separated from Jen; we make like the Benz coupe in the car-park is ours; our (mid) five-figure salary becomes (high)-six (if you include the bonus).
Fearless with falsehoods, you approach and start talking. She’s just as cute as you imagined. They’re real, and she’s laughing at your story. But tonight’s not the night, because somewhere, at another watering-hole, is the mate she’s beeing trying to marry for two years. He doesn’t want to commit. Fool.
And so you retreat back to the hide, heartbroken, but spying a little something tasty to your right………hot damn, she’s a fox! Where’s she been all my life?
Proving yet again that the only difference between us and the animals is that they take their drinks neat; we mix with cranberry.