MODERN MATURITY DEPT. Life is One Quirky Motherfucker

I woke up this morning and just stared at the ceiling for about an hour.

Last night, a bartender was able to guess my age, exactly, on the first try. I didn't think anything of it; the various servers at ----- have made some very strange guesses during my two years in this town.

A bouncer once asked me for THREE forms of ID because he didn't believe I was over 21 - that was flattering.

One bartender - a muscular blonde with gorgeous eyes - once guessed that I was 37. That was not flattering. Not that 37 is old; I'm just not a fan of having someone age me a decade in a few simple words.

I'm generally happy with my age, who I am in the here and now. I didn't think anything of E.'s correct guess. It simply reaffirmed my belief that she is quite possibly the smartest working upperclassman in this town. I always thoroughly enjoy talking with her; she's one of the friendliest folks I've ever met.

After I'd put down my second Labatt mug, I had to hit the head.

----- is notorious for its tiny restrooms. One stall, one urinal. No soap in the dispenser. A towel dispenser that hasn't worked right in years. These two guys had beat me to the relief stations, so I leaned against the wall and waited. Both guys...overgrown fratboys back for some alumni reunion...were chatting away like old ladies a church potluck.

Of course, if old ladies at church suppers were as full of shit as these tools, everybody would be destined for hell.

These two guys were talking about which women out at the bar they were going to try to "score" with that night. Talking about tits and ass, banging, fucking, sucking, ...sprinkled with a few miscellaneous Yo bros spread in between grunts.

This tiny little metrosexual, a cross between the Can You Hear Me Now? Guy and a Smurf, turns his head my way.

"Hey bro...are you hitting that or what? I'd love to tap that shit. Girls like that...need dick."

Who the fuck does this dwarven hipster wannabe think he is? And who the hell did he think he was talking to? For all he knew, E. was my sister, a friend, a lover, a student of mine.

If you've read this site long enough, you probably are aware of the fact that I used to be a bit of a hoodlum in a past life. Certain stupid choices I made in high school are the reason I can no longer close my hands on cold days. I may be more Bertrand Russell these days, but I used maintain more of a Russell Crowe persona back in the day.

This guy was drunk. His friend was drunk. They were drunk when I first sat down at the bar. Rolling a drunk isn't difficult; rolling two is tricky but not impossible. Someone had left a plunger near the can - I could easily get to it before Big Mongo knew what was happening. The little guy would've been an easy out... pump-fake with a right jab, then a left hook...

I don't like violence and senseless violence over some comment only makes me look like an idiot. There is nothing at stake beyond a verbal insult that the person in question would never hear. Guys who talk about hitting that in a bar bathroom rarely hit anything beyond the palm of their hands at the end of the night.

The tiny guy moved over to wash his hands, freeing up the urinal. I thought about accidentally missing the head - the guy probably wouldn't have noticed.

Then he started talking about his sweet ride. On and on while he washed up about his new sports car. (Who was this guy? A heart surgeon? He spent about 2 minutes scrubbing his arms.) At 33 years old, the guy had finally talked Mom and Dad into hooking him up with a ride of his very own.

I finished up, went back out to the bar, and ordered another tall, cold Labatt. Chatted with E. a little while longer until business picked up, then narrowly escaped a conversation about frontier justice with a very nice biker. After I left the bar, I realized I had to make another pit stop.

I could've made it home. Could've gone back to the bar.

But I noticed this car...a nifty little convertible that matched the description I'd just heard in the restroom, with plates that matched Metrosexual Mini-Me's home state. Who leaves the top down on a convertible on a rainy night? Next to a bar? Illegally parked...

Fate is a real bastard sometimes. One cheeky, evil bastard.

I've never owned a vehicle with black leather upholstery. I don't know the first thing about, say, getting the urine smell out of leather seats or leather-covered dashboards or...

* * *

For some reason, I was thinking about that this morning while staring at the ceiling. I was grinning for some reason. I don't know why. I guess I was feeling a little...hmmm... relieved.

Maybe I'm not as old as I feel sometimes. Or as mature. Or as wise.

Maybe none of that matters first thing in the morning.