King for a Day

This weekend I was pleased as punch to become a social experiment for every boy in the world when I was asked to be a part of my best friend's bachelorette party. I weighed my options for a couple of seconds before making my decision because it's been years since I've even stepped foot out of Memphis and I wasn't about to turn down an opportunity to drink somewhere new. And we didn't just go SOMEWHERE we went all out. I packed my day bag (the only bag I own, mind you) and before I knew it, me and a gaggle of ready-to-party ladies hit the road for HOT SPRINGS, ARKANSAS! Don't be j.

In narrowing down what I wanted this post to focus on I had many choices. If I summarized the entire trip you'd get bored and I'd cry. If I talked more about the "social experiment" quality of it I might offend good friends and I'd cry. So I've decided to go straight for the thing I was dreading about the entire trip. The spa package.

**If you didn't giggle when you read the word "Package", please close your browser because we are not friends or on the same planet together.**

Hot Springs is cute. You don't even realize you're in Arkansas if you can wipe your memory clean of the bumpy roads and cornfields and cheap-knife-selling gas stations you encountered along the way. And if you can forgive the "bartenders" everywhere for only knowing how to pour straight liquor and for calling your entire group "ladies" in every restaurant you went to even though I obviously have a beard and a penis (trust me, I made sure it was noticeable)...every time we left a restaurant I could hear them whisper "there's always an ugly one". Sorry, tangent. So yeah, Hot Springs is cute. We had 2 cool rooms connected to each other and were signed up for a pretty rad "Spa" day on our second day.

Before we left on the trip, I made it very clear I was having nothing to do with Spa Day. I was going to find a bar and make friends with no one and be perfectly happy until the girls came back. They laughed and seemed to hold on to the fact that they were going to FORCE me to disrobe and be touched inappropriately by people I did not know. I guess they forgot how stubborn I am. So Spa Day arrives and at breakfast we get a call.

Lady: "Eric, would you like a male or female masseuse?"
Me: "No thank you"
Lady: "..."

By this time I was highly hungover from our first night in HOG COUNTRY, sore, grumpy, and needing some time to not be around 6 women in full "BACHELORETTE PARTY" mode. Contrary to popular belief, gay men are not women. I needed to watch a sport or crop dust a bunch of old ladies having tea. SOMETHING! Instead, I put on a trucker hat, opened a beer, and turned on some JERRY SPRINGER all the while insisting I was NOT being dragged to what they lovingly called the "Bath House" which upon inspection looked like the place where all the girls were going to be murdered by the hotel killer and leave me as the last man standing. I was sure this was some sort of horror movie waiting to happen.

I did not go. I took a long shower. I watched cable on the crappy television. I thought about going shopping then realized I had to be stubborn about that too because I'm trying to fight a stereo-type here people! My job is hard.

When the girls returned they all had the same look on their face. Like their legs were melting and they were having problems standing up. All collapsed on the bed at the same time. I assumed this meant all went well and nobody got murdered by Helga the Killer Masseuse. So we continued the party.

As the day went on though, bruises started popping up, complaints about sore legs and shoulders were shouted, dead skin flakes found in drinks...all that jazz. All the while, I sat back in my bar stool grinning. Grinning like a fucking winner. I did not have headaches, I did not have any bruises, and I most certainly was not molested by any strangers that day!

I am not a martyr, no. And it may all boil down to my uncontrollable anxiety that wouldn't let me enjoy a nice day at the spa and then write about how it was probably horrible for everyone and that watching TV was a much better way to waste the money I had already spent on the spa day. But in my head, I am king. King of the bachelorette party! Dad would be proud.

Urban Outfitters=the nail in the coffin.

I've been living in a bubble. A very comfortable, posh, totally cool, and young bubble that everyone wants to hangout in. A couple of days ago some hipster child ran up to my reallyawesomecool bubble and popped it. Popped it HARD! In this bubble, I was young and hip and knew everything about everything that anyone could care to know about that was cool. I was livin' the high and naive life, just like mama taught me! Until this fatal day...I'm having trouble talking about it because I'm still in shock. Let me get to the point already.

A few days ago my bff and I were killing time before going to our lovely jobs (that we only hold because we have to buy the coolest records and Igadgets and glitter) so we decided to stop by the newly opened URBAN OUTFITTERS. I hadn't been to an Urban Outfitters since I was 22 visiting Seattle (I am 29 now...and painfully aware of it) and I thought it was the greatest store that Jesus ever gave a bank loan to. Now, when we arrived I was kind of unkempt (which is cool right???) and in my boring work uniform...didn't think it would play a part in my anxiety-filled visit.

Upon entering the wreckage we were NOT greeted by the little hipster imp at the door. This was my first red flag. He was wearing something that obviously was picked out to make him look like the lowest on the Urban Outfitters totem pole. As soon as we walked in, he looked the other way. I stared. Refusing to move until I was greeted (my tax dollars pay your salary! I think...I don't know how that all works actually...)...well Impy didn't greet us and I was dragged away. I focused way too hard on not being greeted by Impy and watched as he greeted all the other 15 year old giggly girls that walked in. I guess I didn't giggle enough but I SWEAR I was kind of giggling and flipping my hair nonchalantly. I then decided that Impy was not an actual employee of Urban Outfitters...but he wanted to be. He thought if he came in every day wearing vertical stripes, too tight jeans, and a KA-RAZZY ski cap over his fat head and mouthed the words to the Radiohead songs playing over the cool loud speaker...they would eventually hire him. So to him I say, nice initiative, horrible outfit, keep reaching for the stars!

That was only the beginning. I started feeling this lump in my firm stomach when we started browsing the obviously-made-by-someone's-mother jewelery. I needed a moment to take it all in. I have social anxiety anyway so maybe this was just a minor panic attack. I can deal. That's when I looked around...like, REALLY looked around me. Everywhere were children smaller than me, trying really hard to do what I was trying really hard to do 8 years ago (and failing, unlike I did), wearing too tight everything/KA-RAZZY ski caps/funky hair/and mouthing the lyrics to the Radiohead songs being played over the cool loud speaker. What kind of hell had I just stepped into?

Then it happened. The jokes started coming. Everything out of my mouth was a snide comment about some piece of clothing ("Who is this LARGE for? a large baby???") ("I think you just found the 'Mom's Are Cool Too' Section, after Megan told me she found a shirt she liked)...I couldn't be stopped and I was cracking myself up! Then when I made a remark about a SALE price. I realized what had just taken place. I...after years of denial...had finally become my father. "Is that price in American dollars???". "I'm not sure which is the guy's section and which is the girl's". It went on and on.

And then...for the first time in my adult life. I felt old. I felt ancient. I didn't get it. I still don't get it. I knew a few of the songs on the cool loud speaker but I suddenly felt dirty about it. I knew I wanted to buy Tina Fey's new book but it seemed wrong now...and Impy was guarding that section of the store. I watched as more and more tweensters piled into the store grabbing up every over-priced thin piece of cotton to buy and all I could wonder was "did they just buy a dress or a shirt?". It was almost fetal position in a corner time. My breathing became heavier. I considered just giving up and trying to squeeze my fat ass into some jeans and showing those children how it's done...instead, I made a few more jokes about Impy and drug Megan out of the store. She dropped her pallet of 900 shades of glitter eye shadow and we were safely outside.

Outside the store a woman holding a violin case was on her way inside. I told her not to do it. She ignored me. At least she'd be able to express her feelings better than I was...I should start carrying a tiny stringed instrument with me wherever I go.

So here we are. I'm almost 30. I dress like a Target store. And I don't understand kids these days. Where do I go from there? Yelling at kids to get off my lawn? Drinking scotch and watching "Murder She Wrote"? I'm kind of okay with any of those options. Damn you Urban Outfitters...you killed my bubble.