Louisville Slugger
Hitting the road again after Memphis filled me with relief but not because I expected the men of other cities to be different. It wasn’t the men of Memphis that had brought me to my knees (metaphorically only, of course) but misogyny. It was misogyny all along! The patriarchy is everywhere (including dating apps). But something happened to me in that town that changed me forever and for the better. I hate the idea that a person has to experience hardship to grow but for all the heartache and frustration Memphis had brought me, it shifted something in me.
In Paducah, after checking into my hotel, I got dressed and went out for a drink. I was still sober, but I refused to believe I couldn’t still sit at a bar and order diet cokes and just live. I didn’t bother swiping much in Paducah. I would only be there for one night and I was still up to my ears in disappointment from men (even if I’d developed a better perspective on it).
Paducah is small town, so it shouldn’t have been surprising when the bartender and another customer started talking about welfare moms. The bartender assured me she knew real live actual women who had babies for no other reason than the government assistance. She lamented how unfair that was given that she was busting her ass as a bartender putting herself through business school. I didn’t want to shame her for her (bullshit) views, so I asked her if she thought those women were doing well. Though I admittedly did not believe she knew these women (or had any real understanding of their lives), I continued to question her. Did she think having a child was easier than bartending? How big did she think welfare cheques were? I asked her if she thought motherhood was only a desire that rich people have? I asked her if she thought children deserved to suffer because their parents were idiots? Before long the conversation pivoted to opioids and again, I found myself taking up the cause she was against. How could you not try to help people who were suffering? Did she think people suffering from addictions were doing well, like did she think they were thriving with clear minds and full bank accounts? Did she think they were wholly to blame for a flawed medical system and even further flawed humanity where being a billionaire is fine but the people who flip your burger don’t deserve healthcare? I doubt I convinced her of much, except maybe Canadians are preachy saps, but I’ll be honest that when the customer to my left started leaning towards our conversation to hear better and one of the line-cooks came out on his break to sit and talk, it’s possible a difference was made—even if just of perspective. I tipped her well and left, another brave night of going out alone under my belt. I tucked myself under the covers of my room at the Best Western Paducah and changed my Tinder location to Louisville for the following few days.
In Louisville the next night, I took myself out to a college basketball game, which let me tell you had the stadium and fans of a professional league anywhere else (those people are serious about their sports). The next day I went to Churchill Downs (home of the Kentucky derby) where I placed a few bets and watched some horses run. Later that night I took myself out for a Hot Brown (which is a sandwich not a man for anyone confused) at the Brown Hotel Lobby Bar. I even made friends with a woman who turned out to be starting a master’s program in Creative Writing the following semester. During our conversation she divulged that she’d recently gotten married. She told me that she wore red shoes with her dress.
“Like, clown shoes?” I asked confused (and accidentally showing my feelings about marriage).
She laughed before showing me a picture of red stilettos to clarify.
The next night, bolstered by my friend making capabilities and Louisville just generally feeling like the soft landing I needed, I accepted a date with guy from Tinder.
And then I cancelled the date with the guy from Tinder. Unlike the misogyny of Memphis, the reason I cancelled was much less upsetting and more the speed of bullshit I was used to back home. Like most men (interested in me) before him, my Tinder date was quick to ask me out and then just as quick to be nonchalant about planning it. He said he was studying, and he’d text me when he was done but I can’t stand nonsense like that. Sure, if we’re friends, you can have loose plans with me. But a date? A date with a stranger? I’m not waiting around all night twiddling my thumbs without a timeframe or a location. So even though he was polite, and cute, and clearly interested, I cancelled and said it was not going to work. And then I went out to buy some grocery store salads.
I can’t remember if I was wearing a shirt with no bra or if I was wearing a bra but no shirt under my sweatshirt. When I ran out to the store, I had planned to make it quick and hadn’t dressed for a date. I’d barely dressed to be out in public. In 2016, I still thought men gave a shit about that kind of thing. In 2016, I still thought an ugly bra could ruin a boner. This is why, when my Tinder date-no-longer-date texted to say fuck it we should just meet at a bar right now, I was hesitant. My boobs were either out loosey-goosey or they were contained in a bra that would seem insane should anyone unzip my hoodie. I was wearing jeans (and I wouldn’t normally wear jeans on a date because of how they make my stomach look bigger—or exactly as it is which feels bigger when you’re insecure about it).
I wanted to say no because I wasn’t properly prepared. I wanted to say no because I was nervous. We met at a bar thirty minutes later because I was trying to be the kind of person who would meet a man for a date at a bar either not wearing a bra or just being sloppy with it.