Goals
Everyone I know has goals in life. Some people want to get married, buy a big house with a big yard and fill them up with children. Others are working on degrees or careers or saving the world. A lot of people seem focused on some combination of the above, desperately trying to “have it all” in a society that says you can without working out the details.
As for me, I am pretty much without goals, without ambition, without direction. My job kind of drives me nuts, but I’m not really looking for another one. It would be nice to get married some day if I meet a man to share my life, a man who can deal with my neuroses and doesn’t add to my stable of nervous afflictions. However, I am not actively pursuing that one (perhaps I’ve told you of my stalker, the hand-holder, the bachelor party). My luck ranks up there with the fate of the Titanic, pet rocks and butterfly collars.
Right now, I focus more on getting out of bed every morning, putting on clean clothes and making it through the day without twitching, clenching or punching. I’ve made a good go of it (other than Wednesdays) and given my success rate, I’ve decided to move on, to branch out, to define a goal and a path toward achieving it.
I have decided to become a regular in a bar.
I don’t know if I watched a little too much Cheers growing up, but I really do want a place where everybody knows my name and they’re always glad I came. NBC romanticized alcoholism, the subterranean Boston bar and the beloved if somewhat dysfunctional makeshift family of Sam and Diane, Coach, Carla and Woody. Cliff, with his inane ramblings and Norm’s familiar hunched form seemed friends of old, and the wooden stools as comfortable as the armchair from which I watched.
Being a regular worked for me in college. I spent the better part of three years at the Brathaus (a News hangout and home of the dollar ice night). Dan, Dan the bouncer man introduced me to his new girlfriend sometime mid-college and when I met her a couple of weeks later, her frozen feet in a bar bathroom sink, we clicked. I read at their wedding and have spent holidays in their home with their parents, pets and kids.
After college, though, I lost my regular status. I also lost quite a bit of weight, which is completely unrelated. I swear. I had a brief fling with a restaurant/bar in Colorado but that only lasted a few weeks. Other than that: nada. I felt ungrounded, lost, adrift in a sea of social obligations and no place to call my own. And so, I set my goal.
Now, one cannot fall into regular status without drinking a lot. Given the constraints of time and money, not to mention my physical and mental well being, I outlined a plan to minimize the drinking and accelerate the status.
My first consideration, obviously, was the bar. I needed a comfortable, neighborhood bar. Unfortunately, the bars in my neighborhood scare me and/or come attached to chain restaurants with perpetually happy wait staff running around in ridiculous outfits, singing at people. Definitely not an option.
I narrowed down my choices to a few select bars, took them for a test drive and decided on one. A neighborhood bar, just not in my neighborhood, which is a drawback. A regular really needs the option of walking home on nights when the beer flows a little too freely (preferable to a drunken metro ride or cabbing to the boonies).
It is easily accessible, however, and I can find generally parking within a block or two, take the metro or cab. Downstairs consists of two parts (plus a generally disgusting bathroom): pool tables on one side and a cigar bar with leather couches on the other. Upstairs a couple of well-worn, hardwood bars with stools, televisions and brass rails await. The clientele matches the eclectic feel, ranging from Hill workers to construction crews.
And that brings me to the scenery. I definitely like the scenery. The Freak and I coined the 15-minute rule a few years back when we realized that after, oh, say 15 minutes in a bar, the clientele looks a lot less attractive than they did when we walked in. If the guys still look cute, the bar passes. While occasionally there aren’t enough people to pass, my bar consistently ranks.
Though, I didn’t pick the bar for the men. I’ll talk about that later. I didn’t even pick the bar for the beer selection or because I focus on drinking. (I don’t drink at home.) I just wanted a place of my own, outside of work, outside of home, without any expectations. Cheers!
I need to be comfortable in the bar. (Not really an issue because I exude comfort and tend to make friends wherever I go.) I will have to go to the bar alone on occasion, but I also need to make sure that I don’t come across as “scary, lonely girl.” My friends need to like my bar if they would be regulars by proxy.
I also realize that I need to go at off times, so that the bartenders recognize me as a regular, not just a face in the crowd, a fair-weather patron (not to mention the availability of bar stools). Stop by for a beer or dinner on a Monday night, when the pizza is half price and most of the draught beers have run out. Weekend afternoons, weekday nights.
With my plan in mind, I started going to the bar. A beer here, a couple of beers there. I enlisted the aid of a couple of outgoing friends and between them and my solo journeys, I’ve managed to make my face known on at least six separate occasions in the past two weeks.
Tony the Sunday/Monday bartender knows that I prefer Stella but will drink Harp in a pinch. Simon on Saturday afternoon gave us free rounds to make up for panhandling by a fellow patron. Arlene keeps telling me to come back, and I know that if they aren’t keeping track of how much I/we drink, they’ll charge us $25, flat, which generally deserves a very nice tip.
The road to regular status hasn’t been easy, even the smoothest wooden stool has splinters, but as with any relationship, it requires effort, compromise and a whole lot of love.
Each bump in the road to regular provides a lesson. For example, don’t date anyone from the bar. If anything goes wrong, as invariably it will, the bar might be lost in a custody battle or a turf war with each camp laying claim to booths, bars, Sunday afternoons. A second, equally important factor is that nobody wants to be “that” girl. Nothing could be worse than being “that” girl.
Being a regular requires getting to know the bartenders, all of the bartenders, and treating them with respect. Paying tabs, paying tips, waiting. Patience. But these things take time. Right now, I’m working with the transportation issue and considering whether or not I can maintain a long-distance relationship with a bar.
I may move closer someday, or we may grow apart. Only time will tell, and we’re not there yet. We’re taking it slow, finding our way. I’ve got a plan, and I’m sticking to it.
A girl’s got to have goals.
