Flirting On the Battlefield
We have all been there, single life as a women in the world racking our brains with how we can possibly gain the attention of the cute guy across the room, unfortunately battling one another for the same eyes that devour us from every angle. Giggle, flip hair, bat eyes repeat, we all know the drill. Particularly as a young girl in her 20’s in college the monotony of dating the guys my age is a difficult cross to bear. Not that it is any easier at any point in life with any age or any gender, but it seems especially difficult at the brink of adulthood when we have trouble deciding what we want for breakfast let alone what we want in a significant other. Yet we clog our brains with ways to play games with the other in order to wake up the next morning to a face we hardly recognize. Woohoo! You scored! But how did you get there?
It starts when we get ready to go to the bar/club/party. The obsession over what to wear consumes us like pile of cloths consumes our bedroom. Strappy tops, black tops, dresses and slacks, flowy tops and flower tops missing their backs. The options endless and we still end up in the same outfit we first picked out (my mom always said that would happen). And we’re off!
Our fellow flirty women giving compliments to all “OMG girl you look so cute” “Did you find that idea on pinterest?” “ugh your hair looks so good did you just get it done?” and all this work for the simple disinterested nod from your crush at the table of friends you met at the dive bar by your college. You make conversation, stimulating and charming about the latest Wes Anderson film or the book you just finished (Amy Poehler you are genius). He laughs at your jokes, takes part in the conversation with interest and you pull out the big guns, by touching his. You lightly and strategically place your hand on his upper arm, laugh and throw your head back to flash a bright smile and your shiny over processed locks. You think to yourself for that split second “it’s working, he is totally into me”. And at that moment of joy and hope at hard work and experience paying off this hot petite thing walks out on the dance floor with painted on jeans, sky high heels, a customized face and a shirt leaving little to the imagination and you lost him.
His eyes no longer participating in engaged conversation with yours, instead they are engaged in the peep show that is taking place behind you. She shakes, grinds and drops it, she won the game fair and square. “I wonder how long it took her to pick that outfit out of the pile of slut cloths” you think to yourself with bitter jealousy. The guys make comments to you as if you understand the real appeal “dude look at that chick!?” “Damn!” and “I wonder if I should buy her a drink?” she has guys fawning over her, plying her with alcohol and attention. Her giggle, hair flip and eye bat is way better than you have ever practiced in the mirror. You instantly hate her.
Hate her? For what? Doing what you attempted to do all night? Dress hot, flirt and get the guy? Does flirting make love a battle field like Pat Benatar always said? Only now the obsession with gaining the hormonally driven attention from guys is creating a battle within the sexes to win the flirt war at a sleazy bar. Goodluck, may the best women win.
