Confessions of A Naughty Girl

White People Do Not Know How To Socialize

White people.

We are not a friendly bunch.

We've managed to master political correctness, the "with liberty and justice for all" mantra, and some etiquette basics, but we can't f*cking talk to one another. We have not mastered the interpersonal.

This weekend, I went out with four or five girlfriends. It was a brilliant plan really, as one of my good girlfriends had just gone through a painful breakup. The plan was to rally the single girls, head to the nearest watering hole, hit the sauce, and see what happens. That was bound to produce a great time, right?

Wrong.

We showed up at a well-known bar in Buckhead that I had originally suggested because I am sick of meeting unemployed alcoholics in the Highlands. We walked in, stood there, ordered drinks, and continued to stand there. For a long time. Like, a really long time. Like, there was no point in buying an $8 drink if we all could have stayed at home and talked to one another, because that was pretty much what we were doing. The entire bar consisted of small groups of people who obviously knew one another and no one was venturing outside of their group. There was the Georgia group (also known as the "We think the sun rises and sets in Athens, GA" crowd - I have good friends who went there, but my friends do not fall into this category), the "Lip-filler-is-delicious...it-matches-my-fake-tits" crowd, the "Who's-your-daddy...do-you-want-one-because-I-am-offering" midlife crisis crowd (to be found in close proximity of the fake-tits crowd), and us. The ethnic-looking girls. The girls who have natural boobs of all sizes and will actually order food and eat it in a restaurant. The girls who did not go to Georgia and don't necessarily care all that much if you did (but go Dawgs). And me, the blondest of them all, fooling no one into thinking that my blonde hair might be anything more natural than a bottle of Schwartzkopf hair color, thirty minutes of peroxide, and the Midas Touch of Gay Ken. Weird, weird dynamic.

We quickly devised an escape plan, which consisted of hitting Krystal, because the only Dawg-related team we could all agree on was the Krystal Chili Cheese Pup. (Go Pups!)

The crowd disbanded rather early (12:30 to be exact), so my newly-single friend and I were left to our own devices. We weren't tired, but we couldn't figure out where to go...until my newly single friend (who is also a budding salsa dancer in her spare time) suggested The Havana Club.

For those of you unfamiliar, The Havana Club is a Latin club in Buckhead -- a modern-day Copacabana, if you will. Salsa, Merengue, Cha-cha, Rumba, Samba, Mambo, Bachata, Cumbia, Bolero...you name it, they play it. (And thank you Wikipedia for enlightening me about dances of a Latin American origin - you learn something new while posting at work.)

We walked in, and it was like...well, I can't describe it. Okay, I'll describe it. It was a lot like "Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights", which I wholly admit that I saw in the theaters on opening day in 2004. It was not my best judgement. It was all hot, balmy, and smoky, and there were a lot of people sweating. There was the occasional Tecate, but a lot of people were drinking water. My first thought was that there must be some great underground ecstasy ring or something, because the only time I've ever seen that many people on a dance floor with only bottled water was in that episode of "My So-Called Life" when Rayanne and Angela go to a rave. (And for the record, I am not totally sheltered, but where recreational drug use was concerned, my crowd of friends usually found that a bag of schwag or a plain, old-fashioned joint would get the job done - not that I am condoning this in any way, of course.)

And the men...the men were all over the place. I couldn't lift my bottle of water for a sip without some guy coming over and extending his hand. It was so nice! So welcoming. So sociable. My friend and I danced for a good part of our time there, with a small handful of guys. They were respectful, they were nice, and most of all, they were just there to have a good time - they were not copping a feel of the breast or playing a mini-game of slap ass, as would be expected.

Now, I will throw a disclaimer in here: the bar was full of locals. Local what, I don't know, because everyone I asked seemed to be from somewhere different (that is, when I could pull the response out of a pile of broken English) - Bolivia, Andorra, Mexico. I saw exactly one Gael Garcia Bernal lookalike but he was taken by a really pretty girl who had ass for weeks, so that was an automatic hands off. Her ass alone could have kicked my...well, ass. But I digress.

The truth is, most of the guys were creepy-looking, yet oddly unafraid of rejection. As far as they were concerned, I was the dumbass if I couldn't handle how sexy and light on their feet they were. And if I turned down their offer to dance, f*ck me because there were other girls in the bar that would dance with them. I mean, good for them, right? Confidence is key. Here they are - hot, sweaty, smoky, and in my opinion, icky, and they do not give a shit that I have just turned down their offer to dance.

The whole incident got me thinking - why is it that on any given weekend night at any given Yuppie bar, there is little social interaction without the direct involvement of alcohol? Why is it that we are so dependent on alcohol, so obsessed with appearing aloof, so focused on hooking up, on f*cking, on adding another notch to our bedpost?

I'll admit, I am guilty as hell of all of the above. The better part of my twenties thus far has been spent playing a game...walking a fine tightrope of love and indifference, of interest and apathy, of figuring out if I think I could spend the rest of my life waking up next to the farting sleeper next to me or if ten, twenty, thirty years down the road resign myself to having settled?

I will say one thing for The Havana Club - it is exactly how the world should be, at least in my eyes. It is exhilarating fun - people dancing and not caring if they look like assholes, drinking some beer (or water, if necessary), and meeting people. And having fun! And not letting their fears of rejection deter them. It's an interesting f*cking concept, don't you think?

Perhaps I can take the best of both worlds and aim to be the kind of girl I was on Saturday night at The Havana Club, except for this time, I'll bring it to the Yuppie bar. Perhaps I can muster up the courage to revolutionize my generation's socialization skills. But until then, I'll probably be knocking back shots at the bar like everyone else, waiting for my buzz to kick in.

posted by KA @ 3:11 PM