Friday, October 7, 2011

Flirting Methods of the Chronically Awkward

My life is a Drew Barrymoore movie, and not even a cool one like ET or Charlie's Angels. I'm no badass nor precocious child who teaches a lovable alien to speak. What I am is an awkward flirter who overestimates her connections to men in a going out situation. Once, after declaring a guy looked like Rob Pattinson a friend asked, did you get his digits? (they didn't say these words exactly since it's not 1998 but you get the point). I said no, but I declared proudly that we exchanged names. Upon seeing him again, I was even prouder that I waved to him and smiled. He did not remember me (gasp).

Tonight was a similar night, though possibly more successful. Ladies (and men I suppose), you know what I mean when I say there's always one person you have your eye on all night; one person who you want to grind to an Usher song to, or better Swing by Savage.

If you have my brain (odd but possible), you dance with your friends but stick your butt out thinking that that's a sign that you're willing to dance. You give them small smiles from over your shoulder. You keep your hair down even though you're sweating so he can see your lustrous locks. If you're even more like me, that person is rarely the person you end up hanging out with.

On this particular night, I had my eye on the DJ (the forbidden fruit). While requesting I Just Had Sex by The Lonely Island, I made my move.

"'I Just Had Sex', please," I said to him.

Having already requested, successfully, I'm on a Boat, DJ boy laughed and said, "Really?"

I smiled broadly at him and said, "Yes!" He grinned back and something took over my body and I winked at him, scurrying away before I could see his reaction.

Having been successful in all my requests previously, I later decided to both test DJ boy and get a song that would make me very happy: Larger Than Life by the Backstreet Boys (represent). He shook his head though a smile remained on his lips. My response was, "Come on, you know you want it." He replied that he, in fact, didn't. I reasoned that he could mix techno but he was unconvinced and time went by with no Backstreet Boys coloring the "club" that I was occupying.

When a country song came on I stomped back over to him, demanding Backstreet Boys, pouting in a way I thought could be flirtatious. "What do I have to do," I asked him, to which he replied that he didn't even have the song. I told him that he had broken my heart.

Later on in the evening he made amends however, playing Living on a Prayer for me to, in my words, "make up for his grievous offenses against me." And when he emerged from his DJ place of forbiddeness, he gave me a strong high five (important because when you're naturally a strong high fiver, you tend to alarm most people with your vigor).

Essentially, he is the love of my life (for the night). Did I leave with his digits or even his name?
No, no I did not. Because it is not my place to be forward. I don't know that lifestyle. Can I know that lifestyle? I suppose only if Drew Barrymoore learned it in her films. If not, I'm Elliot when ET begins to grow ill, and by that I mean all blue and mumbling things about an Extra Terrestrial being that show that I don't have my priorities in order.

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