Lessons learned at Paradise Park

We left our Selena Fan Club T-shirts in the car.

On Friday I was at Paradise Park on Broadway following the Selena Gomez concert (a sentence I never thought I would say in my adult life). It was just early enough to comfortably walk to the back of the bar without getting thrown up on or sticking to the beer-soaked AstroTurf, when Jordan and I ran into this awesome middle-aged group of friends all dressed up for Halloween. They had left their kids at home for a night out and looked simply stellar as Sonny and Cher, and a hippie groupie. 

After sharing stories and dancing to the music, "Cher" (who had been married to her hubby "Sonny" for over 22 years) came over and whispered in my ear - "Now, if I were you young girls, I would be going for THAT guy!" and she pointed to a 6'5 "textbook" gorgeous guy standing with a group we had been talking to. The other guys in the group were much friendlier and having a blast with us. Mr. Gorgeous was hot, but couldn't be bothered - he was not entirely fun, nor was he interested in meeting our eclectic group (or hearing about our Selena Gomez concert... rude). Having learned the ways of a brooding fox like that long ago, I told "Cher" he wasn't my type. Her mouth gaped open as if I clearly hadn't noticed the six pack chiseled beneath his cotton shirt or the way his eyes sparkled in the neon strobe lights. I assured her to just stand back and watch him for a little while and she would see why.

With each drink and each barbie doll (both costumed and otherwise) that walked by he became more and more of a jerk. He wasn't respectful or awesome in any way but the girls flocked to him like a toddler to a candy bowl (or me to the candy bowl on a bad day). This to me was science. Typical gorgeous guy mixed with alcohol and a heap of attention from a bunch of girls = textbook douche bag. But "Cher" was shocked. Oh how times have changed?!

Ain't nobody got time for that.

I couldn't help but ask myself in that moment, since when did hitting the genetic jackpot give you license to be a jack ass? And why do girls chase after those guys expecting they will be the exception to the rule and break through the massive layers of ego? Girls, put down your "wrecking balls" and start demanding that the guy make the much less destructive move of gently knocking on your door and asking you to dinner - no major effort or impact required.

And until he does that, I'd much rather sing a duet with my new friends "Sonny and Cher" and call it a night. After all, "Sonny" didn't have a six pack anymore, but after 22 years of marriage they were still singing "I Got You Babe" and to me, that is the true jackpot.