There are very few rules in my household: be a good human, make moderate attempts to keep things clean, replace stolen beer. And most importantly, pennies are required in penny loafers.
Out on the Cupid pub crawl, the one that I swore I wouldn’t attend and then took back a day later, I once again had to remind a frat boy friends of the rules.
“Sam!” I said by way of greeting, pointing to his shoes and clearly disappointed.
“I’m not in your house!” he responded. “I KNEW you were going to stay something.”
Needless to say, pennies were immediately procured.
We lasted about 45 minutes on the pub crawl before abandoning ship (so many people, so much claustrophobia!) for a non-pub crawl location. I was standing at the bar ordering a round of drinks when a lady with two nose rings and curly hair started talking to me. She had just moved to town from Baltimore, wasn’t a huge fan of D.C. so far and had also ditched the crowded pub crawl.
I didn’t realize she was hitting on me until Sam walked up behind me and lazily put his arm around my shoulder. She took one look at him, another a me and walked back to her friends. I should note that I’m equally as clueless when men are hitting on me as well.
Sam said something or other to a girl at the next table over, which just so happened to piss off her meathead looking friend. We’re not entire sure what he said, but whatever it was, encouraged the meathead to flex all of his bravado.
Sam has a fair amount of tattoos– I’d say a lot by D.C. standards, and just a few by Chicago or New York City or really anywhere else standards. I overheard the dude shit talking to his friends about Sam, which I’m sure was easy to do as 6’something Sam was at the bar getting another drink and well out of earshot:
“I don’t have tats! I don’t need them to be tough.” Because clearly, all these flowers I have tattooed on my body make me tough as hell, yo. Two points for you.
The meathead continued his mumbled shit talking and rounded the whole thing out with a solid, “I thrive on confrontation, man!”
I desperately wanted to walk up to him, punch him in the face and then ask if he was now thriving. Luckily, I was talked out of it.
One of the younger frat boy friends joined us on Saturday as well. I’d never met him before, as he’d recently graduated and moved to the D.C. area. People were instructed to wear pink and red for the pub crawl, which prompted me to ask the following question.
“Are you wearing a pink shirt for the pub crawl?”
“I have a girlfriend,” was his response.
“Oh,” I said, “I’m not hitting on you.”
And then we both felt incredibly awkward.
Note: Sorry the formatting is incredibly weird. I’m just sick of trying to fix it.