Showing My Armpits Who Is Boss

You may have noticed but I like to call attention to the fact I’m single.  Once in a while Sometimes Often I think I enjoy lamenting about not having a girlfriend more than I would enjoy actually having a girlfriend.  More on why that is at another time.  One of the side effects with drawing such attention to my “predicament” is that everyone with a passing interest in my happiness feels compelled to rectify the problem. 

Sometimes it’s well-intentioned words of support.  Other times, it’s a more invasive outreach.  I usually have to come up with some excuse to duck the blind date or “chance” encounter being proposed.  My bridge club meets that night and the old guys get cranky when we have to reschedule. / I’d love to but I bet my friend that I could stay in for 30 consecutive nights and I could really use that money. / Research has proven that 73% of all relationships involving travel distances greater than 20 miles fail.  Wanna play a fun game?  Guess which one I’ve actually used.

I’d ask you all to stop but I get off on the fact that I inhabit some region of your sub-conscious.  Sorry, but that prime piece of real estate on your temporal lobe is not for sale.  Screw you, Younker, you’re not that important!  Yeah, you’re probably right.

Anyway, the most recent person to try their hand at DY Matchmaker (fun for ages 8 and up) was my good friend Josh.  The backdrop is that Josh hosts a bitchin’ party around the 4^th of July every year.  Truthfully, that event and its stories deserve its own submission*.  This year Josh informed me that one of his female friends had requested to be set up with one of his friends and he figured I would be the best fit. 

I’m not sure if his pool of potential suitors was being limited to those coming to his party or everyone he knew in the greater Chicagoland area.  He threw me a name and suggested I chat her up.  As I’m prone to do in situations like this, I panicked through some thinly veiled sarcasm.  He scolded me, “Don’t be a pussy and don’t be self-depreciative.”  Well, with my go-to approach and backup plan having been summarily dismissed, I began to scramble for ways I could engage this girl. 

After I decided to make a conversation with this girl a problem for Future Dave, I began to resent Josh just a little bit for putting this pressure on me.  How dare he assume that I would be a best fit for anyone?  The inner grade-schooler in me whined.  Can’t a guy go to a party without having to talk to girls?

I departed for the party without any sort of game plan for talking to this girl.  Fortunately, it was about a 35 minute drive, so surely I’d be able to come up with something good, right?  About 10 minutes into the trip, I began to curse Past Dave for being so negligent with his duties.  It was also around this time that my armpits began to get visibly upset, so I tried to console them.  This is not your fault, armpits.  Everything will be fine.  This is nothing to cry over.  God help me, I even pleaded with them to dry those tears.  When my attempts at providing a calming, fatherly influence did not work, I broke out the proverbial belt.  I chose to silence my silence my armpits by gagging them with my t-shirt. 

You want me to tell you what happened with the girl?  Tough shit.  Actually, there is nothing to say.  No, really, there is NOTHING to say.  Fortunately, there was no one anxiously waiting my appearance so the onus was all on me.  When someone eventually called out her name I summoned the full strength of my perceptive powers, I discovered who the target was.  At least I could close the book on that mystery.  I did and promptly went back to enjoying the party.  My armpits?  I fluffed my t-shirt and they played ball.  I tried to be nice, but they had to choose the hard way.  It’s not the first time they’ve made that mistake.  Sadly, it probably won’t be the last.

*I suppose I’ll relate a few stories from this year’s version of the party. 

I like to consider myself a social chameleon.  I’m not a very outgoing person by nature, but I can sit down in most circles with the belief that I can offer something worthwhile to the conversation should I feel so inclined.  As I chomped into my plump, juicy Johnsonville smoked sausage cheddar-dog, a comrade from my younger brother’s class and his girlfriend sat down next to me.  As I watched them bite into their whatever (it wasn’t meat and that’s all that really matters) burger and listen to the girlfriend talk about the Sanskrit class she was taking, it became abundantly clear that I was out of my element.  It was in my best interest to wolf down my food and make some excuse about checking out the lake.  Boy, it looks like the waves are really rippling today.  I can’t recall the girl’s name but I’m going to call her Luna because of her striking resemblance to the actress who played Luna Lovegood in the Harry Potter series.

As usual, there was a fireworks display at this year’s party.  So what?  That’s not exactly unique or exciting for a 4^th of July party.  Your protest may be true but what if they were EXTREME fireworks?  Well, what else would you call it if the pyrotechnic crew (aka Josh and a few others at the party) narrowly escapes death or the loss of limb several times?  Seriously, there were more than a couple fireworks that could not have ascended to a height greater than 30 feet before exploding and raining down on those in the immediate area.  I was watching from afar but couldn’t help inching a few steps back and yelling a “HOLY CRAP!” with each successive launch.  I should add that these were legitimate fireworks (Josh doesn’t mess around). 

In closing, there was even a reference to my three strikes policy at one point during the day’s festivities.  Sure, the person tried to use the policy (incorrectly might I add) against me, but that’s progress as I see it.  The policy is out there and it is actually guiding people.  Get over yourself, Younker.  You don’t influence me!  Yeah, you’re probably right.