Last night I met one of my besties for tapas and a long overdue catch up. (OK ..eff you judgemental lot. Yes I had paella and tapas because tapas isn’t a meal! It’s overpriced starters in way too little bowls.)

Afterwards we ended up at Grace Bar because they played 20 seconds of one song I vaguely remembered from the 90s and I had to go in for a dance. This soon turned into a verse and a chorus of every song released in the top 10 in the last 20 years with no bass and the same dance track bed but, it was too late, she had already been chatted up. What can I say? I have friends who’ve got it like that. Kanye shrugs

Her dude seemed cute but a quick sweep of the room and I settled myself in for a night of reckless dancing among the work Christmas party revelers.  There was nothing for me to see. I lie. There was a dude at the bar but, I thought he was sitting. Turns out he was standing. He was nipple height at best and I’m not looking for a man baby. I went back to dancing my winter woes away.

The animation of the drunk couple next to me was lovely although he did snog her like he hadn’t eaten that day. Take a breath my brother. Save a snack for later. I moved away in case some of his saliva missed her mouth. I couldn’t take risks.

I figured I was safe as I kept a close eye on my friend and her new friend. But then a single woman by herself means that guys assume I was up for being chatted up too. I tried my best, ‘dude, I’m just here for the music resting bitch face’ but the resilience of alcohol was on their side meaning they just ignored me. Patriarchy is still alive. My friend’s new friend wanted to impress so bought us both double vodka cranberries. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t drink and when I do it has to be Grey Goose. It was rank. I think they were rationing out cranberry that night? I politely sipped and thought, this is how men can drug you. I was too nice to say no to a drink I didn’t even want for  a penis that wasn’t even chatting me up? Sigh. I went back to dancing on my own. Sadly no Robyn was played that night.
Then the chancers came over. I know my job is to keep them distracted whilst the transaction between my girl and her new amour occurs but, I’ve forgotten what it was like to wing woman apparently. Why was this dude who had the odour of forced celibacy mixed with an inability to find a shower talking to me? Why was the other dude with the unusually long torso and munchkin legs trying to Strictly twirl me to a Little Mix song? A long shirt and low hanging trousers weren’t helping.  Was his name Luigi or, was this 2001 all over again where he was claiming Italian but was really from Eastern Europe? What were Little Mix actually shouting out to their ex? So many questions but I just stared at him blankly.

I was finally released from my Wing woman duties as numbers were exchanged and I made my way home. As I ubered back to the safety of my sofa I realised that wing womaning isn’t easy oh! I need to rebuild those muscles for small talk and guys leaning in way too closely.

Is there a class I can take? Because I don’t want to fail my friends. And we all need a wing woman once in a while.

© Chelsea Black 2017

 

 

Chelsea Black is a writer. Romantically seeking her Fubo (future boyfriend) she often gets distracted by misadventures. She is currently working on her second book, first baby (sperm to be confirmed) and first real career. Chocolate and cocktails are food groups