And then the weird ass gang of bicycle riding creeps arrives, and they form a giant line at the bar, and they smell of sweat and disillusioned ambition, and you have to leave right freaking now but they’ve monopolized the only bartender, so you have to wait in line, and while you’re biding your time you stupidly compliment some chic on her pink platform wedges, and you immediately regret it as she flips her hair, and your wife and sister-in-law may or may not be watching you fumble to disengage from the interaction that you invited, and the only thing that can really save you are some “A” game jokes and a virtually flawless bowling game later tonight. And you can live with that.