It’s date night +1, because it’s been forever since you and your wife have seen an awesome friend. And you’re at one of your favorite bars with two hotties that are both out of your league, and you’re having a mental conversation with sixth grade you, saying “didn’t I tell you shit would work out?!” And a dude at another table is trying to pretend that he knows the ladies from some fictional event, and you’re so glad that’s not you having to make up total BS to try to hang with them. And like the Grinch’s heart, your mojo grows three sizes.
But then it’s time to move to a different bar, which is not on your list of approved destinations. And they want to walk instead of drive. And it’s hot as balls. And they want to sit on the roof patio, where it’s still hot as balls. And the Kirin & sake drink you order regrettably features hot sake instead of cold, which is fine in habitable climates but inadvisable outdoors during a Texas August. And suddenly the King Kong mojo you had summoned begins to shrivel. And you just want some air conditioning. And you manage to move the party indoors. But then your wife is tired and ready to leave, even though you’re finally cooling off and a fresh gin & tonic has just arrived.
And as you make the long walk back, you reflect on the fleeting nature of mojo, and frivolity, and how if people would only stick to your approved destinations list, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.
And you get home and should probably hydrate before bed. So you grab a Perrier out of the fridge dedicated to that beverage. And you chug it, and it burns, and causes you to belch like Godzilla. And you chuckle to yourself as you climb into bed, because you’re a ridiculous man, just like you always hoped you’d be.