Grey's Journal:
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A friend of mine, Andrea, arranged a day-before-Valentine's Day gathering at a bar near Angel Station. As usual, my need to arrive early had me emerging from the underground twenty minutes ahead of schedule. As I rode the escalator out of the subterranean depths and the surface world came into view, I was struck by the sensation of exiting an airport. When you leave a plane, there is that moment when you get to walk past all the people waiting for their friends and family. Everyone's eyes pass over you momentarily and then move on. It was the same situation here, except without the professional drivers and their silly hats and name cards. It really was a shame, as a name card and hat would have been quite useful for identifying blind dates. Normally no one lingers in the underground stations, but on this day it was clear that each of these people had agreed to meet their Valentine's dates at the station. Though there must have been forty people in the station, no one spoke. Each person just waited for their date to arrive and then the pair left on their own. Almost all of the men had flowers in their hands and almost all of the women had anticipatory fear in their eyes. Each person looked to be in the age range of 20 to 30 years old, and each was clearly nervous. Each, I imagined, wondered what the night held for them. Would they find the person they wanted to marry, or, would it be the worst date of their life? Or perhaps, worst of all, they would be stood up, and get to spend the night waiting at the station for a date that would never arrive. I joined the crowd and scanned the escalators for my friend. Because I had time to kill and had neglected to bring a book with me, I made up stories about various people in the crowd to entertain myself. A nervous-looking man of about 25, I decided, had been set up on a blind-date by his mother, whom he still lived with. The evening would turn sour when he tried to engage his date in a lively discussion over who was the better Star Trek captain: Kirk or Picard. The woman who kept checking her watch I imagined was an escort. She had seven other John Does that evening to see and this guy was holding her up. The people in the crowd had chosen the same style of dress: look good but be prepared for any possible contingency that miscommunication may have brought about. They balanced the fine line of being casual enough to go down to the pub yet still formal enough to get into anything short of a black tie affair. As I was the only one not waiting for a romantic evening, I felt a bit out of place in my jeans. As I continued to wait for Andrea, one woman standing nervously by a rose-vendor caught my attention. She radiated such intense feelings of insecurity and nervousness the air around her shimmered. She seemed uncomfortable as the other womens' dates showed up with roses in their hands while she still waited for hers. Frustratingly enough, right next to her was a man holding two roses. I don't know much about romance, but two roses seems like the wrong number to give a woman. The correct number of roses is one, six or twelve. Two roses are wrong in the same way thirteen roses would be. These two people were the human equivalent of a crooked painting. I wanted to take one of his roses and give it to her - thus righting the situation and balancing the view. But before I got annoyed enough to do so, Andrea showed up and we went to meet the others in our group at the pub. Andrea is the only person in Europe I know who's louder than me. She is from Barbados. Even if you can't identify her accent, don't worry, she will work her native land into any conversation. Talking about international economics? You will find out how this policy affects the Barbados. Having a chat about the foolishness of politicians? Soon you will hear more than you ever wanted to know about the Barbados Parliament. Complaining about the weather? You will soon know all about the tropical storms that plague small island nations. I like hanging out with her because her loud, Barbados voice draws attention away from my not-as-loud-in-comparison American voice. She's also an only-child like myself and thus we have a natural connection. My experience has shown me that only children turn out one of two ways: supremely independent and self-confident or complete emotional wrecks. Even among the self-confident, Andrea stands out. She delighted me by pinning down what it is about only-children that makes them different. ``It's the only-child monologue - that constant conversation you have with yourself.'' She was dead on. If there is one characteristic that defines only-children and shapes them, I think that is it. I also enjoy her company because it's easy to make her laugh. I tell her stories of the embarrassing misadventures of my life and before long she's laughing so hard that tears run down her cheeks and people at nearby (and not so nearby) tables cast disapproving frowns in our direction. The bar she chose for the evening had a high number of blonde, dim looking girls in low cut shirts and push-up bras. The kind of girls who think that a tube-top with the words `2nd Base' printed across the chest is clever. These girls also almost always wear jeans two sizes too small. And, the jeans don't have any pockets on the back, which annoys the hell out of me. But I suppose they don't mind since they couldn't fit as much as a single slip of paper into pockets so tight anyway. Their jeans make me think of red-assed baboons - so overtly sexual it's ridiculous. I was saddened to find their kind in England. I had hoped the bimbo was a phenomenon isolated to America. But sadly, I discovered this was not the case. England was not solely filled with devastatingly intelligent and dry-humored women as I had thought from watching many PBS shows as a child. I died a little inside. Though this flock in the pub still had nice accents, their air-head appearance and inane and vacuous dialogue destroyed any enjoyment I would have derived from listening to them. But, if I was going to walk into a bar and not expect bimbos, that was my fault, not theirs. It would be like a jock attending the opening of a new wing of the National Science Museum and complaining about all the geek girls in attendance. Now that I think about it, it's a shame the NSM didn't choose to open an exhibit on Valentine's Day - I know I would have gone. |
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Copyright © 2004 Wellington Grey  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License. |
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