Attended the second anniversary party of my regular hangout last night, and was kind of perturbed to find it a parade of girls that I've hit on once or twice. As I told a friend late in the evening, it was a Greatest Hits of my bad decisions -- I winced a lot as memories came back.
I'm a pretty quiet guy, aside from the occasional impromptu and unrequested lecture on the dissolution of Yugoslavia, aside from the occasional attempt to do the "Electric Slide" in a crowded restaurant, aside from occasionally singing Pogues songs to an unappreciative audience. So it's disconcerting to be at a place where I've drunkenly chased most of the girls at one point or another.
The result, I guess, of hanging out at the same place four times a week. And perhaps an indication I need to branch out a bit.
* * *
I only have one drawer in the whole condo -- the kitchen cabinets are in a layout that makes them impossible -- and beyond some batteries and instruction manuals, it's really all people's cards. Most of those, girls I've met in some capacity over the years.
Flipping through them, some have a patina of disappointment and regret, some make me cringe, many I don't remember at all. Some I dated a few times, some blew me off, some I blew off. Some of them, I woke up the next morning excited to call the girl -- others fell victim to the cold light of sobriety. There's real estate agents, doctors, hairdressers, consultants, importers, waitresses, lawyers, non-profit workers.
I don't know why I keep them. I'm not planning on calling them ("Hey, remember me? We met at Noche in 2004"), I'm not hoping they call me. I have no trouble tossing out a number scrawled on a napkin. But somehow, tossing out someone's business card seems... rude, I guess. A bit of bad luck.
* * *
The Pogues. The good thing about singing along drunk to them is that no matter how drunk you are, Shane was drunker.