Single, Alone and Crying in Banana Joe's

I've spent my fair share of Valentine's Days single. (Most of them for that matter.) Usually, I would watch bad movies (my college roommates laughed when I came home with my own copy of Love Stinks, starring the forever-squinty French Stewart, but I also caught each and every one of them watching it before the semester was through), talk about how much men sucked and I loved being single, drink copious amounts of wine with my girlfriends, go out dancing and come back home for a good cry about whether or not I was doomed to be alone and where all the good ones were hiding.

As sad as you think that might sound (this routine probably encompassed far more nights out than just Valentine's Day in my early 20's), no "I'm single pity party" compares to 2004.

Then, my love life was off-kilter at best. I was in the throes of a romance that was largely in my own head. There were distance, unrequited feelings and far too many late night phone calls. Whatever I had made that mess into, because of the distance I would obviously be having a very single Valentine's Day in Birmingham. So, another girlfriend and I gathered our friends together for a good, old-fashioned Saturday night on the town.

Our logic: Every restaurant in town will be full of couples canoodling and staring adoringly into one another's eyes. How could we avoid this? Why, by doing shots and heading to the cheesiest dance club in town, of course.

(For those of you not from this area, that club was Banana Joe's. To set the mood for you, I was conservatively dressed in a halter top, jeans and heels. Also, what I remember most from dancing is the moment that "Pussy Control" came blaring through the speakers while dudes dressed in Hawaiian shirts sprayed fire extinguishers into the crowd. It was pure class.)

We drank; we danced. Then, I took a break from the mob to sit on the stage after a few songs, and a male friend of mine decided to tell me some info about the ill-fated crush.

As some advice to any teenage boy or male that might be reading this blog: If you know something you're not sure will go over well with a female friend in your life, Valentine's Day is not the time to share it.

In the words of Adam Sandler from The Wedding Singer when his fiance shows up to explain why she left him at the altar: "Gee, you know that information really would've been more useful to me YESTERDAY." Only in this instance, if you can't get the info in a week (calendar, not business) before Valentine's Day -- and it doesn't involve death or dismemberment -- replace "YESTERDAY" with "TOMORROW" in the above sentiment.

So, male friend shares info about crush. I think it involved another girl, but I'm not sure, and it's not like the crush owed me anything. But, at that time and alcohol-fueled, I was heartbroken. I ran to the ladies' room with my best girlfriend trailing behind.

There, we found most of the girls standing in line to dry their hair under the automated blowers (sweat from dancing), re-apply lipstick or talk about who was the cutest boy in the club. (Needless to say, my friend and I had about five years on most everyone in there, despite being only 24.)

I barreled through to a spot by the sink and let the tears flow.

Within seconds, a Hooters waitress found me, put her arm around me and pulled me toward the high top where the bathroom attendant sat. (Didn't I tell you this place was classy? Of course a restroom attendant complete with "If you like Ralph Lauren Romance ..." perfume belongs in a Banana Joe's.)

"Where is he and what did he do?" the petite waitress said.

"He's not out there," I said. "Well, he is out there, but he's not the he that ..."

"Uh-huh," she said. "Tell me about it."

"I just don't know why this happens to me? Why is it always like this? What is wrong with men?"

"Cocks," the bathroom attendant chimed in, shaking her head. "They're all cocks."

"I'm a good girl," I said. "I'd make a good girlfriend."

"I know honey," the waitress said. "You're beautiful."

"Cocks."

I nodded in the bathroom attendant's direction. "Why me? Why today?"

"Are you sure you don't want to point me in his direction?"

"Cocks."

"It's not his fault," I said.

"I'm willing to teach him a lesson. No one should treat you like this."

"Cocks."

"No, no, it's going to be OK. I know I can get through this."

"You can do so much better than this baby."

"I can," I said. "I know you're right."

"Cocks."

"You ready to get back out there?"

"I am," I said. I wiped my tears on some toilet paper from the girlfriend who had followed me into the restroom. (A girlfriend who didn't know whether to laugh or cry during this exchange and who also can validate every detail of this meeting.) "I can do this. Thank you." I stood and looked back towards my two new boosters.

"Go get 'em," the waitress said.

"Cocks," added the bathroom attendant.

With their confidence and commiseration, my friend and I walked back out into the crowd. I held my head high for a few more songs, and then we headed home. But, at least I didn't cry again.

I vowed to never spend another Valentine's Day in a club bathroom crying, and so far, knock on wood, I've been able to keep that vow to myself. I wish you all the same. 

* I love all of my male and female friends (even those I've only encountered briefly, in, say, a Banana Joe's bathroom), and in case it wasn't incredibly obvious, this story is meant to mock me, not the other players.