I am laying it down today and I don’t expect you to like it.
Here’s the deal:
I am opting out.
I am opting out of the stupid dance you have to do just to meet up with your friends these days. Back and forth trying to impress each other with restaurant knowledge. I’m tired of Foodies. I’m tired of trying to figure out which restaurant is cool enough, atmospheric enough, gluten and peanut-free enough, artisanal enough, farm-to-table enough, Zagat-rated enough.
Maybe it’s my inner George Plimpton rearing his WASPy head, but I’m just here for the booze and conversation.
I really don’t care about the food. I could eat a grilled cheese sandwich. I could eat stale bar pretzels.
I’m here to see YOU.
That’s why I love that when George Plimpton threw his legendary Paris Review parties in his Upper East Side New York apartment, the booze and conversation flowed freely but the only food available was canned Dinty Moore stew.
So Foodies, if you’re trying to impress me, know this: it’s only about you. Have fun, enjoy yourselves, but I’m opting out.
I’m also opting out of any photo in which I’m forced to pose with a bunch of bitches around a table, hoisting a glass of wine, all of us trying to look skinny and happy enough to post the photo on Facebook.
Hell no. I’m done. This night is NOT the time of my life. It isn’t even worthy of a photo. We didn’t climb Mount Everest, ride to the Egyptian pyramids on camels or enter the Forbidden City. It’s us drinking cheap, shitty wine after work around a table. Don’t ask me to pretend that it’s more than that.
All of which is why I am envious of 1980’s-era divorcée nights at some lousy Mexican restaurant. According to my investigations (i.e. talking to my mom) in this era before cellphones or Facebook, you’d arrange to meet “the girls” after your shift at the department store. And it was understood you would meet up at “the Mexican place” near the mall. Nobody gave a shit if it was cool or not. You didn’t have to worry if you had a snag in your nylons or weren’t in your cutest outfit because no one was going to take your photo. You’d drink a margarita and no one would tell you to pose with it. You’d bitch about your ex-husband and kids. You’d laugh. You’d give the waiter a bigger tip if he carded you. You’d go home and there would be NO EVIDENCE of the evening!
I know. I’m having a hard time picturing it too…