“And I don’t know if I’m ever coming home…” The Monkees
Babs and Donna Summer once did a duet, “Enough is Enough,” that was so high drama that Donna Summer passed out in the studio and Streisand stepped over her body and kept singing. I don’t know if that musical urban legend is true but I would love nothing more than to be the last diva standing. And I don’t mean in a studio or showdown with another female. No. If I don’t get out of Dodge, or whatever funk I’ve been stuck in for several weeks now, I won’t be responsible for the bitchiness to ensue.
It started last night. Dorky white guy in fleece shirt(so not okay in a club) just walks up with his pint in hand while I’m dancing to dancehall. I keep on keeping on. He says nothing, just looks at me from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. He might have been cute if I was Asian(yes, that’s bitchy but I’m angry)but he wasn’t my type. Plus he had no game. No joke, no witty one-liner, not even a “don’t I know you from Cal.” Silence and no impressive dance moves. Later, he tried to start conversation by saying “I don’t know what’s going on” in reference to the DJ’s slightly messy mashups. I left for water. Much later, as Lisa twirled past him, he commented, “Someone smells really good. Is it you or her?” I replied, “It could be either of us” and went to the bathroom. His last-ditch attempt was tapping me on the shoulder when a salsa set began. I said, “I don’t dance salsa.” His reply was, “Neither do I.” Now usually that would earn him points but alas, I felt nothing. I headed down the hallway to practice samba steps.
I’m done. Done with guys I’m not attracted to being the only ones to talk to me at the bars and the clubs. Done with men who claim they feel something for me only to act as if they hate me. Done with being celibate. So done with not. Done wondering when and if I’ll meet someone. Done shaking my fist at my thirty-four-year-old ovaries and the prospect of amnio or worse yet, no babies at all. Done with drunken tears and arguments.
Enough is enough.