Ken Harrison 10:30 a.m., Dec. 10
Most people come home every weekend (and/or weekday) night in a drunken stupor rambling about the hot stud Harry that they met at the bar. Once your home, you ransack any and all cameras that MIGHT have been brought to the bar by your friends and you pray for that money shot that will hopefully give you a glimpse of your prince charming and those baby blues…that could be browns…that will jog your memory. But I ask you, then what? So you spend 20 minutes talking about the guy, 45 minutes searching through slideshows on your friends cameras (even your friends friends who are visiting and you have know for 4 hours), and then you convince yourself he is probably the best person you have ever met and that your meeting was an act of God. You then spend another hour eating Ramen in your living room, with your roommates…and the other princes they met that night… talking about what to text him and what to do tomorrow night if he texts back.
This is the beginning of the end for everyone in the room. You think you met a stud, your roommates want to bang their studs, and the studs around you wished they met girls who lived in studios. While all these are issues that should be addressed and will be addressed in the upcoming weeks I am sure, the real issue here is…where is your stud? That’s right, if he was that great and that wonderful, then what happened to him? Lady’s, what made him walk away?
We go out every weekend and we meet great guys. Of course you meet the tool-bags with blowouts from New Jersey, the nerds that look like they just stepped out of a Land’s End catalog, the cool but too short sailor, the break-dancing New Yorker, the sports jock, and the talk-dark-handsome stranger. We take our pick, we roll with it, we sip on it, and in the end we usually pick one of these boisterous boys to be ours for the night. The initial greeting is great! He comes over, he starts dancing, he buys you a drink (maybe 5), you scream your names in each others ears, and for the rest of the night you are petting, groping, and molesting each other is if you are in front of the cameras circa 2004 in Cancun being filmed by MTV. Truth is, your not, he’s not, and the only wet t-shirt contest that might be taking place in your vicinity is on you if you spill one more drop of that vodka-cran on yourself.
My point here is, what makes him walk away? Is it that not-so-shy camera diva in you? Or maybe the hands-over-head dance move you keep pulling? To these questions we all ask ourselves and run through our heads for 3 (or 7) days later, I say, “who cares!”. That’s right, “who cares”. We all hold onto the first conversation, gyration, or drink as if it is the last episode of Dawson’s Creek and we can’t VHS record it. Fact is we need to focus on his leaving. You met, you danced, maybe you exchanged numbers, but he’s gone. Here is what I grant you; a shot of tequila, half a song, and a quick trip to the bathroom to rant to other ranting girls, but then you have to get over it. It took you 5 minutes to find this man and now it should be even easier, I would bet 3 minutes. Why the time change? Because everyone is loaded now and wants to talk about feelings.
Lesson learned: You’re young, you’re single, you’re hot and you too can have hoes in different area codes. So let him walk away – who knows maybe he’ll call you a month later or maybe he won’t. Either way, your pop lock and drop it dance moves probably won’t land your husband but will score you a few rounds of drinks. So get down, get dirty, and have the camera charged up and memory ready, because you never know when your prince of the hour is going to pop up.