What it's like going out when you're single.

You've been to this bar a thousand times, but tonight you're seeing it with new eyes. Instead of simply skipping over people until you locate your friends in the sea of beanies, you take stock of every male face. Since when do so many guys frequent this place? Apparently, they've always been here, because no one else has stopped short and stared open-mouthed like you. You get a drink and attempt to angle yourself in such a way that you're standing with your friends, the people you ostensibly came to see, but also so that you're facing the room. Men are scared of groups of girls, you remember that from an article you skimmed at the doctor's office. One of those “How To Meet Guys Anywhere” articles that you, at the time, gleefully overlooked because, of course, you were in a relationship. You felt so smug that those cheesy fluff pieces didn't apply to you. Those poor women, you thought, looking for answers in one of the glossy banes of the feminist existence. But here you are. Time for another drink. At the bar, a guy you vaguely remember, one you met months ago at a party whose name you forgot instantly, asks you “how you've been, how's the boyfriend”? You say you broke up, the same way you'd tell someone your cat died. To you, it means everything but to everyone else, it's just an awkward lull in the conversation as they try to figure out how to respond appropriately when they don't actually give a shit. But he leans closer, looking at you with renewed interest and offers to buy you a drink. Before you can answer, the leering specter of date rape waves at you from over his flannel clad shoulder. Besides, you might be new at this, but you know that if a guy buys you a drink, he's marking his territory, like a dog. You are not a fire hydrant, you remind yourself. It's only ten, too early to commit to one person for the whole night. You smile and say you're fine at the moment, looking down at your empty glass, mentally preparing yourself for the despair you'll feel when you settle your tab later and see that you've spent the equivalent of three hours of work at your shitty job on watered down bourbon and sodas. So you go to have a cigarette and you're in luck. There's a cute guy already out there, leaning against a wall and brooding. He's actually really cute. Cute in a way you haven't seen since you last laid eyes on your ex. You remember your friend Phoebe's advice, to pretend you don't have a lighter to start a conversation. She's practically an expert, you think to yourself. She has a real boyfriend. You know you're not supposed to meet guys at bars, that's it's not the place to start a healthy relationship. You're supposed to run into them at cute places, like a book store or a coffee shop. But let's face it, you are no where near whole enough to date a guy who spends his afternoons perusing the non-fiction section for pleasure. Last night, you drank an entire bottle of wine and cried while listening to Fleetwood Mac. You found yourself explaining the nuances of your breakup to your roommate's cat, because you realize all your friends are fed up with you and have no one left to talk to. At this point, your hobbies are chain smoking and getting drunk on Wednesdays so this is, actually, the perfect place for you. You swallow your pride, and ask for a light. You see a flash of metal on his hand as he passes you a Bic and immediately tell yourself you've reached a new low where you're hitting on guys who wear jewelery. Upon closer examination, you see it's a ring. A wedding ring. You fight the panic rising in your throat. Last time you were single, you couldn't even legally drink in a bar. Now you've found yourself in a position where you are in an age demographic where people have exchanged legally binding vows. It's official, you can now add failed homewrecker to your resume. When you go back into the bar, the guy from the party has vanished, ending your hope of a free drink and maybe, possibly, a date. You order your whiskey on the rocks in the hopes that this pour will be more than the last, which you assume was a tablespoon. You rejoin your friends and try to engage. These are people you like, who were always enough for you when you had a boyfriend. What's the point of all of these attempts to force some connection with someone, anyone? It's just that you know you can't be totally unattached, to have no prospects, to have nothing to add to the conversation when everyone brings up their significant others. You can't bear to become the pathetic single friend you've counseled countless times during the course of your relationship. You can hear the words before anyone speaks: “You're better without him, he never deserved you, you need to find someone you really connect with, it's worth the wait.” But the longer you wait, the more you start to wonder if you didn't just over think things, that it's possible your relationship wasn't so bad and maybe you can sacrifice all those things you thought you needed, thought you deserved, for the comfort of a warm body at night and someone to listen to how your day was. You get another drink and the guy from the party is back. He smiles and asks for your number, wondering if maybe you'd like to grab a drink sometime. He fumbles with his touchscreen and sends you a text. How's Friday, he asks. You take a breath and weigh your options. It's probably too soon, but if you don't do something quickly, you know you'll get paralyzed in dating limbo. You say yes, sure, that sounds good. He says he'll call you tomorrow. You nod, not sure where to take the conversation after this. Your friends are leaving, so you have an excuse to go, too. You want to save all your small talk for the first date. You know you need those filler topics for later. You tip lavishly, giving thanks to bartenders everywhere for helping facilitate the social lives of temporarily damaged single girls everywhere. You sigh with relief, because you'll finally have something to talk about besides your break up. You're no longer drifting, no more desperate and ultimately deleted text messages at four a.m. You're sure your friends will be happier about this than you are. You light a cigarette, smile, and then stop. What if he doesn't call?