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Self-loathing at Thanksgiving
11/28/05
by Shaw

It might be true, I'm not sure exactly, but they say that the night before Thanksgiving is the busiest night of the year for bars. Kind of like how the day after Thanksgiving is the biggest day for shopping, only with more (but probably not much more) drinking. As I sit here on Sunday night washing away the last of my weekend with my third nightcap, it occurs to me that even though the bars are most full on Wednesday, people are probably drinking as much after Thanksgiving as before--they're just doing it alone at home in the middle of the night. And now I know why.

The speed limit on the road where my parents live is 55 mph: a rural route that runs along the woods. There's a town on this road 3 miles away to the north, and one 10 miles away to the south, and that's it. East and west, all you can see is woods and farmland. So you can imagine my surprise when I was told last year that there is a bar west of my house on a windy back road, 8 miles away from civilization, and that this bar has a beer selection rivaling Washington DC's steadfast biergarten the Brickskeller. The directions to get to this bar, aptly named The Country Inn, are, in all seriousness, "turn right at the Country Deli, go 8 miles until you see the bar." No landmarks needed. There's only one business for 8 miles in either direction. Perhaps it's a simple twist of fate that the other closest landmark to this bar is none other than the home of modern rock music, Woodstock, NY.

In any case, once I saw this place, usually half-empty with a few daytime drunks at the bar, a huge tarpon mounted on the wall, and a table full of hunters still in their camo, I tried my hardest to get people to go there with me as much as possible. You see, I wanted to make this bar my real haunt; I wanted to be a regular. I thought that by finding this new place to go I would finally be permitted to escape what had become the inevitable ritual on Wednesday night before Thankgiving: a locker room of a bar overflowing with sweaty horny college juniors, come home to show themselves off to the townie girls who were too cool to talk to them before they went to college and became social superstars with college friends that didn't know about things like their orthodonture or headlice problem in 5th grade. But it was not to be. For there is a price to be paid for such a resplendent and respectable venue: places like that close early. And so, as the clock wound down to midnight and the Country Inn closed down, I found myself unable to turn away from my destiny: the rest of the night at P&G's, site of all manner of unholy carnal acts, and the drip tray for my hometown's leftovers.

It is at places like this where all high school dreams fade away. Remember those dimwitted jocks that didn't like you in high school? They're lawyers now, and they still work out every day. Remember those weird alternative kids you made fun of? They're all living in Greenwich Village now, making six figures working 8 hour days on the floor at the stock exchange and spending 8 hours a night in bars... and they're still hipper than you. Remember those nerdy kids who you made fun of because they had no social lives in high school? They majored in computer science and got jobs with successful internet companies. What's worse is that in college their roommates taught them to appreciate football and now, in addition to being nerdy computer execs, they're ripped and have hot wives. Remember those hot popular girls? Well, they're still hot, and they bring their rich husbands home with them now. Remember that girl you dated in high school but kind of broke it off with because you thought you were better off being single in college? She's living in SoCal with a doctorate running a company and fending off 20 rich good-looking suitors a day.

This wouldn't be so bad--what's the big deal, you never expected to come back and fit in with the formerly cool kids in your class--they knew you too well. Only, here's the problem: it's not just the ones in your class who are too cool for you.

The following actually happened: I was sitting at a table in this ridiculously crowded bar, drowning my self-loathing in nonalcoholic water (you know they're pretty merciless about pulling people over on Thanksgiving eve), when something caught my attention and that of my tablemates (all male). On my left, just outside the window, was a pair of tight jeans, quite nicely framing a pair of cheeks, just below a super short shirt slit all the way up the sides. My reaction was of course to stare, as was the reaction of the two men sharing my table (both of whose girlfriends were present by the way). Until she turned around and my friend and I had the following conversation:

Friend: "You know who that is, right?"
Shaw: "No, who?"
Friend: "Dude, that's -------------."
Shaw: "You mean -----------'s sister?"
Friend: "Yeah."
Shaw: "--------------'s little sister?"
Friend: "Yeah."
Shaw: "You mean the girl I babysat when she was 6?"
Friend: "Yeah."

That's right. I was staring at the ass of a girl who I once put to sleep by watching Bedknobs and Broomsticks with her and her little sister at 8:00pm. And at 19, she is already way out of my league.

After that I spent the next three nights at the Country Inn. There may not be any women there, but there's no shame in that.

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