It's Friday night in Nairobi, and I'm just getting home from a late-night experience that afforded me the precious opportunity to freely embrace my inner "Crabby Old Battleaxe."
You see, I had originally gotten home at around 6 o'clock, poured myself a glass of proseco, and stretched out on my startlingly comfortable new couch in my new oasis of graceful living. But hovering over me like a rumbling thundercloud was an invitation to late dinner at a popular nightspot. I'd been there a couple times before, had a credible margarita and a tasty appetizer or two, but never sampled their dinner menu. So I agreed to join the group.
By about 8:30, though, I was thinking I really needed to have head examined. Why on earth should I leave my quiet, peaceful apartment to go sit cheek by jowl in some noisy, smoke-filled hipster restaurant/bar where the only way to communicate is to scream yourself hoarse? Still, I'd made a promise, and concluded maybe I should break out of my sedentary patterns more often.
Walking into the place was like entering a frakking sauna....and one filled with cigarette smoke and various hygiene issues, to boot. It took two trips through the joint to even find the group I was supposed to be joining. My Italian friend Roberta, who works for UNHCR and who I actually first met in Gulu back in 2007, finally waved me over. I squeezed into a corner and started shouting back and forth with her.
After about 15 minutes of being ignored by listless waitrons, I huffed my way to the bar and ordered a margarita. It still hadn't arrived 30 minutes later. Cigarette smoke was burning my eyes, and I kept thinking I must be completely and utterly insane to have left my apartment to join this obnoxious circus.
So you know what? After an hour of waiting for a drink, I told Roberta I was going home. She understood completely, but even if she hadn't, I totally didn't give two figs. Then I walked over to the bar where the staff stood around waiting for more dead lice to drop off, and I pointed to a margarita that looked like it was watery and tastless anyway, and asked, "Is that mine?" When someone finally replied that it was, I said, "Keep it. You took too long, and I'm going home. And I'm NOT paying for it."
It felt so good, and so surly, and so "gruff old goat-like" to stalk out of there. But not before casting them a head to toe look that said, "I wish you WOULD try and say something to me. Go on, try and stop me from leaving, so I can lose my damn mind up in this spot!!!!"
Anyway, I'm back home now, comfortably ensconced on my couch and quite convinced that I will never, ever, EVUH EVUH try and socialize in a loud, smoky bar again as long as I live. It just ain't my scene any more. Besides, I am performing a vital public service by avoiding as many situations that pluck my last nerve as I possibly can.
Dontcha think????
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