Girls' Night Out!

Loyal readers, welcome to another installment of "How Socially Inept Am I?"

As part of a generation raised on Sex and the City, I'm supposed to have a close-knit posse of girlfriends and walk around arm-in-arm with them, Cosmos in hand, constantly laughing hysterically.

But I don't have this posse. I've never had this posse. I started hanging out in co-ed groups in Grade 9 and never looked back. The all-girl parties I attended (with a few exceptions) always felt like veiled interventions: "I guess Robyn is technically one of us - maybe we can save her and make her less weird!"

Doing the co-ed thing is great; however, I recently realized that my guy friends outnumber my girl friends 5 to 1. That's getting a bit ridiculous. So, I decided to go bowling last night with 12 other girls, no boys allowed!

I knew I was in trouble the moment I walked in. I had just thrown on some old jeans and battered Converse sneakers, because who dresses up to go to Rev's Bowling in Burnaby? Apparently, everyone. These girls had each spent at least an hour on their hair. They were wearing knee-high boots and sparkling with jewelry. I had never seen so many flawless manicures in one place. If I ignored the sound of bowling pins falling over, I could imagine I was at a Hollywood premiere.

And everything they did took forever. Before a girl bowled, she had to pose for a Facebook photo with the ball. And then we'd do a team photo. And then the team in the next lane would notice we were taking photos and join in. Then, she would bowl. If she hit anything at all, our team would all scream, jump up and down, and hug each other. We'd dance to the background music. Maybe we'd take a celebration photo. The bowler would say how relieved she was that she hadn't broken a nail - because she almost broke a nail that time! A lively discussion would follow about our favourite places to get nails done, and harrowing tales of botched manicures. And then - OMG someone's taking a photo!

Near the end, I was physically exhausted. I had lost my voice from all the screaming. More than anything, I wanted to sit down, order a drink that wasn't pink, and talk about what would happen if zombies attacked the bowling alley.

I was at that bowling alley for literally 6 hours. And I left early. The others were probably there for at least 8 or 9.

Is this the sort of thing that's supposed to come naturally to me? Because it doesn't - I went home and slept for 12 hours straight. Mission to find Sex and the City-esque girl friend posse - FAIL.

Winter is here...

…and my co-workers are complaining about it. I don't feel sorry for them, though, because I know that they, like most North Americans, secretly love to be cold.

Case in point: my office is blessed with large, old-fashioned bay windows that open into a lush and picturesque backyard. Now imagine that it is April or May in Vancouver . The rain has stopped, the sun has come out, the birds are singing. It is 18 or 19° C, and the office is slightly warm.

Do my co-workers throw open the bay windows and allow Mother Nature to caress them with a gentle, cooling breeze? No. They crank up the A/C to the point where I seriously consider bringing gloves and a toque to work. (I actually did have to wear a fleece for most of August.)

And have you noticed that North Americans have a strange obsession with travelling to the hottest places on Earth and transforming them into the coldest places on Earth?

Take Las Vegas , for example: “Hey, I know! Let’s all go to the Mojave Desert and build hotels with heavy-duty air conditioning systems so that no-one ever has to break a sweat!”

Another example: a few years ago, I went on a Greek Islands cruise. I foolishly assumed that travellers to the Greek Islands would be prepared for heat, or at least a reasonable level of warmth. However, my roommates kept the A/C cranked so high that I didn’t sleep for an entire week. The sound of my teeth chattering kept me awake. I tried putting on every tank top and pair of short shorts I owned (which I had packed assuming that I was going on a FREAKING BEACH VACATION and not some sort of arctic survival simulation), but somehow it didn't help.

So, I have a business proposition, if any of you want to jump on board. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

The Winnipeg Luxury Eco-Resort: Enjoy Air Conditioning that’s Crisp, Cool, and All-Natural.

Sandals Iqaluit: Finally! A Beach Resort Without all the Damn Heat.

It’ll be a huge success, I swear! And then everyone can leave the hot climates to people like me who actually WANT to warm up!

Worst. Pick-up Line. Ever.

So I was at a bar the other night with a large group - some people I knew and some I didn't.

One of the guys sidled up to me, smiled, and said, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Meredith from The Office?"

For those of you unfamiliar with The Office:

I just stared at him in shock, wondering if I really do resemble a raging alcoholic cougar in her late 40s.

He noticed my confusion and horror. "You know, the blond one...the accountant..."

"Ohhh," I said. "You mean ANGELA."

Somewhat better...aside from the fact that I apparently give off prudish, neurotic cat lady vibes.

Needless to say, I am still single.

So guys, next time you're trying to be smooth, leave The Office references out of it! Please and thank you...

This just in!

http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/afp/101111/health/health_us_brain_internet

Studies show that people are happier while having sex or talking to friends than they are while sitting at home alone or working.

Well, thank you Dr. Obvious! Fun stuff makes people happier than boring stuff!

But apparently it's more complicated than that. According to scientists, we are unhappy while doing boring stuff not because it's boring, but because our minds are wandering to the future or the past, rather than being present in the “moment.”

My weird neighbour gave me a similar lecture the other day. My problem, according to him, is that I don't exist purely in the moment. For instance, when I'm washing the dishes, I should just “be” washing the dishes. When I'm waiting for the bus, I should just enjoy waiting for the bus.

Now, I'm all for living for the moment. So many people say to themselves, “I'll travel after I'm rich; I'll have fun once I've bought a house,” and they probably shouldn't do that. Just as they shouldn't text constantly while on a date, etc.

But honestly, life was a hell of a lot simpler when we didn't have to be ecstatically happy ALL THE DAMN TIME! When we could admit that hang gliding over Rio de Janeiro is actually a more enjoyable experience than riding a packed B-Line or working on a spreadsheet.

I just don't understand ultra-wellnessy people. When I'm doing something boring, I try to find something LESS boring to do. But according to them, this is not the route to happiness. True happiness comes from embracing the boring activity and learning to love it.

Whatever.

Often, wellness gurus will blame Ipods and other electronic devices for taking our attention away from the “wonders” of the present. But really, I don't think that's the issue here. In the olden days, while waiting on a drab street corner for the horse-drawn stagecoach (late AGAIN), one passenger would likely have turned to another and exclaimed, “I say Bartholomew, waiting for this horse-drawn conveyance is indeed tiresome; I wish I was at a merry country dance instead!”

And he was not suffering from a deep psychological complex brought on by modernity. He was simply saying that some things are boring and other things are fun. And that's fine!

And really, I dare you to go find an actual enlightened guru who enjoys waiting for the #25 bus as much as he enjoys having sex. Well, actually, don't. That would be one creepy dude.

'Cause I don't feel like dancing, no sir, no dancing today..

I did not go clubbing this past Hallowe'en, although I was invited. A number of factors led to my decision:

Artificial lineups.

You know when a club is empty, but they keep everybody outside for 40 minutes anyway, just so it looks popular to people driving by?

Expenses.

$20-$25 to get in.

$5-10 for coat check (unless you are some sort of top-secret fembot prototype who does not have nerves, and therefore can stand outside indefinitely wearing a minidress).

$7-$8 for the most basic drink they have.

$20 - $45 for a cab home.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I like spending money in order to have fantastic experiences that I will treasure forever. However, at a club, there is:

Little return on investment.

Some prudish Vancouverites avoid clubs for fear that they are hotbeds of drunkenness and sin. However, it is impossible to get drunk in most Vancouver clubs – and I've tried.

First, you have to justify the expense of $7 for a beer or rum-and-coke. Then, you have to wait at the bar for half an hour (or defeat several sharp-clawed, spike-heeled enemies to get to the front of the line). Then, by the time you get your drink, your friends have disappeared and you spend the next half-hour looking for them. So, it’s really an hour’s commitment for that one drink. But what if you want two?

The few people who are drunk likely pounded large amounts of hard liquor right before they walked in the door. They are on a completely different planet from you – no wonder they seem aggressive!

So, you can’t drink, you can't talk to anyone, and you've probably lost most of your friends in the crowd anyway. So what do you do?

You dance.

Now, some people really love dancing. They enter a separate world where all their cares melt away. I am happy for them. But I am not one of them. Just when I think I’m hitting my groove and looking hot, someone helpfully says, “Oh geez, are you okay?” or “You can stop doing the robot now.”

The only environments in which I can dance are 80s nights or synth performances by giant dinosaurs. Then my horrible dancing is retro, ironic, and therefore cool.

When I was 20, I did like the club atmosphere: “Wow, I’m here with my girlfriends, dancing at a club, just like all those trendy women on TV!” But, then the buzz-killing mid-20s rolled around, and I suddenly realized, “I’m paying $75 to dance, stone-cold sober, with girls. And... I’m a girl.”

So, in conclusion, I would rather go to a pub. Get comfortably sloshed at the same pace as my friends. Talk. Play pool. Laugh. Eat greasy food. Mingle. Listen to live music. You know, fun stuff. Social stuff. Not-being-groped-by-old-men stuff.