Dating Diaries: a Boy in a Bar

Kids, this is NOT the story of how I met your father. (But funnily, it is somehow the story of how I met How I Met Your Mother.)

To tell this story well, I need to take a page from how Ted Mosby does it and start from the very beginning, which means I will have to start from when I first met the friends I was with.

Just kidding.

I will, however, start with the week before the event because it’s important to the story. It all started with a question, really.

“What’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done?” my friend, let’s call her A, asked me and another friend, let’s call her B, as we sipped our Starbucks coffees that Friday night.

Yes, kids, we were in a coffee house on a Friday night, and this was our norm, right after dinner or a movie, unless we were too tired or lazy to go out and opted to stay in or had the misfortune of having to still be in the office (which happens sometimes, yes). Such wild people, we were.

“The reason I’m asking,” A explained, “is because someone asked me that question and I had no answer.”

Here’s the thing – A and B and I are all boring responsible girls who got good grades and jobs all our lives. We’re also surrounded by people like us, so this revelation wasn’t exactly shocking.

But here’s another thing, 2 another things, actually, about me – (1) I always try to help out a friend and (2) I love a good challenge. So I said, “You know what, we need to do something about that. Let’s have a wild night next week!” Or as Barney would put it: “Challenge accepted!”

And that was how, on the night of 11/11/11, I wore a scoopneck sleeveless mini dress, high-heeled strappy sandals, and Eiffel Tower dangling earrings (this outfit reference is important because everybody I know would ask me what I was wearing afterwards. Why, I don’t know!) and headed to B’s place where we planned to meet up before heading to who-knows-where.

Just as I was walking towards her door, my new phone blinked out an alarm: “11:11 pm. Wish!” So I stopped and whispered this wish to my phone: “I wish for a prince charming.” Then I pressed the doorbell.

We had some dinner and a jug of vodka orange (we agreed we needed alcohol to pull this off) while watching TV, an episode of How I Met Your Mother, which was the one about Marshall looking for the best burger in New York. It was my first time to watch that show ever, and I had no idea how relevant it would be to me very soon after.

I also had no idea that my 11/11/11 11:11 wish was about to come true. Sort of.

We left at past midnight. A and I noted that this was the latest time we had ever headed out to go anywhere, ever. I am usually asking my friends to head home if I happened to be out at around this time. We were in our late 20s then. See what I mean about how wild we are.

Our first stop was a club called Avatar. The place was packed full of dancing people, but most of them were very young, maybe in their teens. Not our crowd. So after trying it out for about an hour or less, we left.

Sorry, is this starting to get really long? Getting there, I promise.

So we decided to head for another club called Avalon. It was just a coincidence that both clubs started with “Ava,” we were not trying to set a theme or anything.

The first thing I noticed about Avalon was how gorgeous it looked. It was like a giant prism jutting out from the waters of Marina Bay.

When we reached the door, we were told the cover charge was something really steep like S$30 or more (I forget). Ack. I wanted to weep, but we were there already, so I paid it, grumbling to myself, this had better be worth it.

It was.

The place was packed with people around our age – our crowd. Whew. So we headed for the dance floor and started dancing.

Now remember, we were supposed to be having a wild night. Mere dancing is not how to do it. So the deal was, we were all supposed to… dance with a stranger.

I know. Such shockingly wild behavior, right?

I remembered something I read somewhere, that you’re supposed to make eye contact with men in a bar to get them to approach you. Uh oh. I’m really terrible around men. The idea of initiating eye contact with strangers? It scares the crap out of me.

But this was wild night. I had to try!

So I looked around and had this internal monologue in the next hour.

Cute guy at 9 o’clock! Yes! Okay, now try to catch his eye… this shouldn’t be too hard… look at me, cute guy, look at me… aaaand the guy beside him is looking at me.

He’s not bad looking, though. Wait, is he coming my way? Yes. Yes he is. And now he’s dancing with me. I think. Yes, he definitely is. What do I do? WHAT DO I DO. HELP.

Okay, calm down, Dee, it’s just dancing. You got this. Just move around, doesn’t matter how, he won’t really notice in this lack of light. Okay his hands are on my waist, where am I supposed to put mine? Wave it in the air like I just don’t care?

Should I try to talk to him? Get his name, at least? But what else would I say? And how can we talk over this noise?? Wait, he’s not talking, so I guess it’s cool. You’re okay, Dee, just go with it. Just dance.

Wait, where’s A and B??? It’s cool, I can still see them. Aha, a guy just danced with A! Her guy looks a lot more muscular than mine.

Wait… did he just carry her like a bride over a threshold and then start swinging her around like he was rocking a baby to sleep? Is that actually a dance move?

Dammit, Dee, stop being so scatterbrained and just focus on your dance partner. He’s staring at you, so just stare back. Should be easy, right? Right.

That internal monologue goes on for another hour or two more.

But this blog has gotten so long that I think I need to end it here and reserve the rest of the story for another day.

Here’s a flashforward, though: if you’re wondering why I’m bringing this up now, it’s because two nights ago, I got a blast from the past when I got an email that started off with: “Hey, how are you? You didn’t answer my email for 5 months!”

Yes, it was from Monsieur from the bar. And yes, Monsieur connotes that he is French.

Read the continuation here.