Confessions of a Bar Crawl Attendee

I don't know why I continue to attend these stupid things. As the summer builds up and the hours confined to an office become more and more maddening, trolling from midtown pub to midtown pub in search of $2 Bud Lights and even cheaper women seems like a really good idea. And in some respects it is but of course the next day is the same old shit; body fatigue, irritable bowels, shame, pourous recall, and unanswered questions regarding how long this type of behavior can be maintained.

For my coupled and otherwise betrothed friends these types of event have become somewhat of a spectacle. It's really an opportunity to relive the old glory days and watch the desperately unattached and wildly uninhibited of us do something stupid. In high school chemistry we got to drop various Alaki metals into a vat of water and watch them react. The farther down the Periodic Table (the heavier the element), the bigger the explosion. Literally. That's what the Midtown Liberty Bar Crawl makes me think of...Rubidium blowing up a tub full of water.

It's amazing that with a lot of booze, loud music, confined spaces, and greenhouse temperatures one's preferences in women will always drastically change. For some reason (alright, one very specific reason) all of the thoughtful dating criteria you've shared with your friends over the years and the high-minded qualities you look for will fly out the window and end up pancaked on the street. What you're only left able to process on one of these debauched nights out is the following: what is she wearing, how much is she drinking, does she look like a party girl, and do I have an in? Essentially the opposite of everything you have ever said in regards to the ideal mate.

Now, I certainly harbor no delusions about what the intent of a bar crawl is. I would never want to meet someone I wanted to date at an event like that because I would more than likely be so drunk that the image of me projected is the amusing, boisterous, yet slightly obnoxious, and wholly unsustainable version of myself that makes cameo appearances from time-to-time. He is the kind of guy that likes to hook up on bar crawls and I would therefore prefer to see him squashed into oblivion. A little harmless no strings fun every now and then is a healthy thing but I can't help but feel ashamed of myself for entertaining conversation topics such as kickball, what a slut/bitch so-and-so is, how awesome it is being an intern on the Hill, or any other number of vapid subjects all in the hopes of discovering what color thong she is wearing. On any other occasion these are the kinds of women I would immediately roll my eyes at and walk away from yet on one or two particluar nights I become the worst imitation of myself.

As always there is an ironic overtone to all of this. It's nights out like these when it becomes how obvious both you and your coupled friends suffer from Grass Is Greener Syndrome.

"Man, I miss this."
"Jesus, this is getting old."

Where is the happy middle?