Dear Wingman,
I’m
sorry I made you carry me on your back for 1.2 miles, forced you to listen to
Vampire Weekend on repeat, and managed to get us locked in the bathroom
together.
Sincerely,
Zoe
In life, every man has to take the
grenade once or twice for his friend as the wingman. This is part of the bro code. I'm pretty sure it says, "Thou must
endure 300 pound women with mustaches so that his friend might
score." Maybe the wingman ends up
in a 40-year-old woman's house playing video games with her 15 year old son
while his friend is "entertaining" said cougar. He might have to
listen to a girl with a Fran Drescher voice complaining about being in seven of
her friend's weddings yet she's still unable to find a date in the greater
Denver region[1]. I've seen wingmen get accosted by cougars,
saber tooth tigers[2],
mountain lions[3],
whales, and small yappy dogs so their friend might get lucky.
Well, I am here to apologize to those
wingmen, because I am in essence the grenade here that you had to land on for
your friend. In recent history, you and I have been forced into awkward social
situations. We have been shoved into
closets together like fat girls at sorority rush, locked on roofs, and endured
countless hours of crappy karaoke so that your friend could serenade my friend
with Dave Matthew's Crash.[4]
"But wait," you the reader are
thinking, "Zoe, you're not a complete troll. You usually shave your facial hair before
going out for a night on the town."
Fact.
Sometimes I even shave my back hair.
No, there are actually two types of girls the wingmen is stuck with: the
unnattractive friend or the taken friend.
I fall definitively into the second category (and some might argue the
first). The second category is worse by
far. See, a wingman can drink an ugly
girl hot, but no amount of alcohol will make me single.
A typical story of my life goes as
follows. All events and interactions are
100% true, but they have been consolidated into one grand narrative for reading
purposes[5].
In Colorado, an unusual paradigm exists
that favors the female gender. Although exact
figures seem to vary, in Colorado, men outnumber women 7 to 4. There's a reason they call it Men-ver. The only place this is more advantageous to
women is Alaska, where even the burly, hairy women are on par with Victoria's
Secret models. For a single woman,
Colorado is a really good Chinese buffet of men. Alaska, however, is the grand opening of a
Golden Corral on Sunday in south Alabama.[6]
 |
| The numbers don't lie! |
The night started out as many others
with a few girls heading out to a local watering hole. Immediately upon walking in, I counted 47 men
and 7 women. After presenting my ID to
the bouncer, I put away my wallet, knowing I wouldn't have to take it out the
rest of the night.[7]
 |
| Nom nom nom- you are the tasty treat! |
If you can't imagine what four decent
looking girls walking into this scenario looks like, picture tossing a piece of
meat into a tank of ravenous piranhas.
It was like playing whack-a-mole at the carnival. As soon as we stopped talking to one, another
two popped up, eager to tell us about their promising career as a systems
engineer and aspiring professional snowboarder.
 |
| They just keep popping up. |
They
"We're Southwest pilots," one
said.
"Really? Can you get us free flights?" I asked.
"Yeah, I have my own light aircraft
too."
"Good, this is my friend Lyn. Talk to her."
I yanked Lyn away from a conversation
with a young man involving whether or not his collar looked stupid popped.[8]
"This is Chad. He's a pilot," I hissed in her ear. "Don't screw this up. I want to go to Vegas and his plane can get
us there."[9]
I shoved her towards Chad and turned 45 degrees, immediately facing a bro-nado Zoo York and Hollister shirts.
"Hi, I'm Greg, and you are?"
"Dharma.".
"Really?"
(This guy was not the doctor of the
group obviously.)[10]
"Hi, I'm Zack."
"I'm Zoe."
"Really?"
"Yeah really."
So I started talking to Zack. This is where I felt bad. If I talked to Zack for too long, I'd ruin
his chances of talking to another single girl.
The shot clock is very short in this game.[11]
However, Zack epitomized douche
canoe. If I even ignored the inordinate
amount of hair gel and unnatural orange tone of his skin, I couldn't take my
eyes off his muscles. It wasn't that
they were so big, but he kept flexing
them!
"Are you flexing?" I asked,
blatantly calling him out.
He looked embarrassed, but I couldn't
tell for sure, because I'm 75% sure that he's had Bro-tox.[12]
"So what do you do?" he asked.
"This and that," I said,
laying out the boring details of my life.
"You?"
"I'm a stockbroker."
(I had guessed contract lawyer. I was close.)
He started yapping on and on about
mutual funds, which wasn't too bad for me since my MBA is in finance. But I needed another drink. The cranberry and vodka the pilot had bought
me was empty. I put my drink down and
crossed my arms.
"Oh do you want a drink?" he
asked, apparently picking up on the hint.[13]
"Oh thanks, I'll take a lemon
drop. Then I can hear more about your
fascinating career as a stockbroker."
The night progressed as usual, three of
his friends talking to my three friends and the guys who didn't make the cut
either getting obliterated drunk or trying to leave the bar.
"So you're all pilots,
stockbrokers, CPA's, systems engineers, and dentists? Wow, it's like the 2012
version of the Village People."
“Well actually Tom works for the legislature. He is going to be a congressman,” Zack
said. I looked at Tom who was trying to
deregulate Melinda’s clothing.
“Hey Melinda!” I shouted.
“He’s gonna be a congressman, kinda like Ben Affleck in State of Play,
so you better take some scandalous pictures or something later to blackmail him
with!”
She rolled her eyes. Nobody appreciates the art of Ben Affleck
like I do. Sigh.
"What are you all here for?" I
asked.
"Like a reunion,"one said.
"Let me guess, you were all
fraternity brothers?"
 |
| This is the first image that came up when I googled "fraternity guys." Yep. Pretty much. |
"Hell yeah!" another one
shouted before commencing in chest bumps and shouts of, "Sigma Chi for life!"
It was time for the disclaimer. In my defense, I try to give all wingmen an
out. I dont want them to fell obligated to entertain me. I have an iPhone. It’s my $550 entertainer.
"Look," I said, "You guys
don't need to talk to me. Seriously, I'm
taken, so go hit on other girls. I won't
be offended," I smiled.
They looked around the bar. There was an 85-year-old woman sitting by
herself at the end of the bar, but that was it.
One guy took a swig of whiskey and headed over.[14]
That's when the decision became unanimous
to migrate to another bar.
We piled into the pilots’ car. I was up front on some other wingman’s
lap. (Sorry if I crushed you dude). We got to the bar and I tried to open the
door. The handle moved but nothing happened.
“What’s wrong with your door?”
“It’s broke. You can only open it from the outside,” he
said, coming over to my side.
“OH MY GOD! THIS IS JUST GREAT! WE’RE STUCK IN THE FREAKING RAPE-MOBILE!”
“Haha, yeah, I like to call it the bait
car,” he laughed nervously.
WHO THE HELL SAYS THAT?
Yep, this is the future of America right
here.
We pulled up at one bar that played lots
of Nicki Minaj and was sure to attract females.
Theoretically.
In reality, the situation was worse than
the previous bar.
"This sucks. I'm not paying $5 cover," Zac said.
I concurred.
"We should just all go back to our
place and party."
"But Emily's gonna teach me how to
line dance!" Greg said.
"And Lyn wants to do karaoke,"
Protested Captain Chad, the fearless pilot and creeper extraordinaire.
After much squabbling, we decided to
leave. Two of the other guys lived in
the opposite direction, so they got in their cars and left. That left the four of us- myself, Zack, Marc,
and Jason, walking.
"How far are we?" asked Marc,
also a pilot.
"You fly planes for a living! How the
fuck do you not know where we are?"
"I'm really good in the air! I'm not good on the ground!"
“It's
the same thing!” I argued. “You were probably one of those pilots that
overshot Minneapolis a few years ago!
"Those guys were just
napping."
"Don't say that! I have to fly tomorrow!" I reminded
him, "Speaking of that, should you
be drinking this much?" I asked, concerned now less about terrorist
attacks and more worried about a still hungover 25-year-old pilot passing out at
the controls and us entering South American airspace.
"Oh it's ok, well, auto pilot does
most everything now anyways."
I made a mental note to card my pilot
the next day. If he was a day under 50,
I wasn't getting on the plane.
After five minutes, Jason said, "I
think we're going the wrong way."
"Well fucking Charles Lindberg took
us this way, so let's look at the iPhone."
Damnit.
We had gone north four blocks, meaning we had...let me see, a 1.2 mile
walk back!"
We started walking. My feet were killing me.[15]
I verbalized this thought.
"I'll carry you," Zack
said. Of course he would. Carrying 110 pounds on your back in the
freezing cold is probably some crazy Crossfit shit.
We finally arrived at our place. When I say our place, I mean my friend's
place. I didn't have a key. Uh-oh.
This wasn’t good.
"Um, yeah, I don't have a
key."
"It's ok, you can wait with
us," Jason said.[16]
"Well thanks, chivalry isn't
dead."
It wasn't either because as all knights
in shining armor do, they had a surplus of Coors Light.
The four of us were sitting around
bullshitting when Marc abruptly got up and left.
About 10 minutes later, I suggested
someone go check on him.
His friends didn't seem concerned. I
went and opened the door to find him passed out on his bed, one arm out of his
shirt, drooling on himself. I said a
prayer for the passengers of flight 1549 to Oklahoma City the next day.
That left us three.
There was nothing really good on TV and
we couldn't figure out the Dish, as this was also their friend's place.
Zack remedied this by putting his iPod
on the dock and turning on Pandora. I
was thoroughly prepared for some OAR "Crazy Game of Poker," which is
the national anthem of aging fraternity guys everywhere, but was pleasantly
surprised with some Dirty Heads.
"I love Dirty Heads," I said,
a note of admiration in my voice.
"You're not as big of a douche as I thought."
"Wait, you thought I was a
douche?"
"Yeah. You look like the kind of guy who folds his
underwear."
He didn't deny this.
"Hey, do you like Vampire Weekend
or Noah and the Whale?" I asked, abruptly getting up.
I didn't wait for a reply. I replace his iPod with mine and set my indie
hipster mix to shuffle.
In
December, drinking Horchata...
"Are they talking about the Mexican
drink?" asked Jason.
"Yes, they're infusing-"
"Can we listen to OAR after
this?" he asked.
Stereotypes: they exist for a reason.
"So what do you do Jason?" I
asked.
"I work with underprivileged
youth."
"You dont have to lie to me. If that's what you tell chicks, cool. But homeboy over here told me he was a
stockbroker for Goldman Sachs, which is pretty much like admitting he's the
Great Satan. So if you work for
Halliburton or BP or something, I respect that."
He pulled out his business card.
Youth counselor.
Fuck.
Now I felt bad.
"Um...I substitute taught for a
stint...I wrote a blog about it..."
"You have a blog?" he asked.
I showed him said blog on his friend’s
iPad. He was fascinated, I'm sure.
At some point, Zack and I started
talking about stocks.
"Well, I was reading this article
in The Economist," I said. "It
was showing how manufacturing was up, especially in the auto industry as a
result of the Japanese tsunami, but natural gas was down due to an unseasonably
warm winter."
Oh.
My. God. Did I just say that?
At this point, it dawned on me. I was
torturing the fucking wingmen!!!
They were hoping for a weekend filled
with buxom blonde snow bunnies in hot tubs and après ski bourbon. Instead, they we stuck with me, listening to
Vampire Weekend, reading my blog, and talking about economics while drinking
lukewarm Coors Lite. I would totally suck as a single person because I was so freaking boring!
 |
| What they got instead |
 |
| What the guys wanted. |
"Where are our friends?" I
asked. "It's 1:45, last call was 15
minutes ago. They're not answering their
phones."
"Oh it's ok," zack said. "They're with Greg. He's a doctor."
"He's a dentist."
"It's still a kind of doctor.[17]"
"Look, I'm really sorry you guys
have to hang out with me-"
At that minute, the door burst open and
two of my friend came in with their two friends, obviously inebriated. Greg, the dentist, and Emily didn't waste
time getting down to business.
Apparently dentists give really good back massages. He said the nerves were all connected and
that massaging an attractive female could only approve her dental health. Apparently the ass bone is connected to the
back left molar. Or so I can assume
based on his attention to hers.
We still didn't have the key because Lyn
and Chad were still outside, stargazing or some shit. He's a pilot so he knows a lot about the sky.[18] I also figured if Marc's navigational skills
were indicative of pilots in general, we'd see them in another hour.
This left us in a conundrum as Melinda
and Tom had gone into the other room, Marc was passed out in the second bedroom
and Greg and Emily were glaring at the three of us.
To this day, I don't know where Jason
went. As I remember it, he pulled some
Cris Angel stunt and vaporized, but I heard later, he hid in the closet. Zack and I ended up locked in the bathroom
together.
Well, I guess technically we weren't
locked in, but Tom yelled something to the like of, "STAY IN THERE YOU FUCKMONKEYS
AND DON’T COME OUT UNTIL WE SAY SO!!!"
Which was motivation enough not to come
out.
So Zack and I sat on the floor of the
bathroom staring at each other.
"I am so, so, sorry," I
said. "Wanna play Eye Know on my
iPhone?"
“I have to pee,” he said. “Turn around.”
I stood up and faced the wall. He didn’t have to ask me twice.
“Earmuffs, please. I don’t want you to hear me pee.”
I sighed and covered my ears. This is my life.
***
Luckily we were saved by Greg and Lyn
who somehow managed to navigate back to the place and interrupted whatever
"talking" was going on in the living room.
“He’s a pilot!” I announced to the room,
as if they didn’t already know. “And his
friend is a pilot too and he was hitting on you earlier. OH MY GOD IT’S LIKE BEN AFFLECK AND JOSH
HARNTETT IN PEARL HARBOR!”
“Why do you keep referencing Ben Affleck
movies to describe your every life situation[19]?!?!?!”
I ignored her[20]
and decided to serenade them with the assistance of my iPhone. I scrolled through Rhapsody until I found
Faith Hill.
“In
my heart I’ll always sing a song about the skyyyyyy….”
Well, that must have worked because Chad
and Lyn ended up locked in the bathroom then.
The moral of the story is this: if
you're a wingman, accept your role. If
you are the grenade, be fucking cool about it.
And most importantly, remember to perform sobriety tests on your pilots
before boarding your plane. Or if your
pilot looks like he enjoyed one too many at night, make sure he has a good
wingman at his side.
[1]
If she can’t find a date in Colorado, she needs to probably consider becoming a
lesbian.
[2]
A woman over 60
[3]
Actual mountain lions.
[4]
Apparently that song is about sex. Who
knew?
[5]
So if you were there, don’t bitch about inconsistencies. If you want to tell your story, go write your
own fucking blog.
[6]
If you’ve never been to a Golden Corral after Sunday service in south Alabama
or the running of the bulls in Pampalona, you haven’t seen a stampede.
[7]
Yeah, sorry, life’s not fair men.
Consider this payback for years of repression. Susan B. Anthony would be hella proud.
[8]
The answer is always yes.
[9]
He said his plane could go as far as Hawaii, but I don’t trust crossing a pond
in those little planes.
[10]
He was the Dentist
[12]
Botox for men. Not even kidding.
[13]
Hints he couldn’t pick up on apparently, however: drop in P/E ratios, use of
marginal debt, the housing bubble, collapse of the auto industry….I held him
personally responsible for the stock market crash of 2008.
[14]
We haven’t seen him since. He probably
suffocated under her throw pillows. Old
ladies love throw pillows.
[15]
My stiletto boots still looked incredibly sexy though.
[16]
He probably needed to lay me on his chest, so he could work his opposite muscle
group. God forbid his traps look better
than his delts.
[17]
That’s what they keep telling themselves.
[18]
I found out later this was the line he used.
[19]
I can’t go to the mall without quoting, “The customer is always an asshole.”
[20]
Because she doesn’t appreciate Ben Affleck as a master of his craft.
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