I was picking up dinner at Bonefish Grill in Ponte Vedra last night, and as I waited by the hostess stand, I had a chance to observe the goings on in the huge, mobbed communal bar. Bonefish is set up so that you can dine privately at tables in one large room, or find a spot to drink and eat at long collective tables or high-top booths or belly-up at the bar in another. It is clearly designed as a fancy pick up joint – it is easy to swallow a dose of liquid courage and lean toward a neighboring patron and say something clever like, “Is the ahi fresh?” or “Do you live at the beach?”
In fact, I met a man at Bonefish grill a couple of years ago – he was fresh off a golf game at TPC, a doctor of international fame and probably the greatest export from Haiti since Wyclef Jean. We saw each other long distance for a bit – his emails and texts (when he took time out from saving lives) brimming with false ardor and the salutation “life is good.” But that ended with a whimper and it’s another story for another time…
Today’s story is about what happens when women of a certain age get drunk. Dare I say it is the most horrifying demographic, even in a category of folks who drink too much and do embarrassing things like fall off barstools and repeat themselves ad nauseam? As I watched the action at the bar, one table grouping stood out – a sixsome of attractive women, perched one cheek on a stool, knocking back white wine in six inch stilettoes. One woman (there is always one) seemed a little louder and messier than the others and it became evident as I waited, that she was drunk.
She was flipping her hair from one side to the other, laughing a bit too heartily and pulling her already exposed décolletage lower and lower while leaning on the table and teetering on the edge of her stool. There were no eligible men surrounding the table… As bad timing would have it, I received my food order just as the women were putting on coats and calling it an early night. We crowded outside together and the drunk woman screamed, “Couches!”
Even I stopped. We all looked at her and she pointed at the grouping of outdoor furniture that is used on balmier nights and slurred, “They have COUCHES! Couches to sit on! Look – couches.” She scampered over and threw herself down on one. “Couches!”
Okay, we get it. They have f*cking couches…
Her friends were standing in the parking lot waiting (as the friends of drunks are wont to do) and one was on her phone and someone said, “Uh huh,” and I hightailed it to my car before anyone thought I was with them. It is times like this, in familiar settings where I have done the same kind of horrifying thing myself, I am most grateful I am sober.
And by the way, does anyone find that attractive?
