A Northern Girl in the Single South: Part 1

Sometime last year I had my first experience with a Georgia good old boy. This individual dresses in polo, khaki shorts, baseball cap and loafers, plays a lot of golf, and probably thinks Walker Percy is a sports writer, if he's heard of him. Which is doubtful, because I'm not sure he reads anything beyond box scores.

The good old boy has a very specific network of friends limited to alumni from his college and members of his fraternity. He also, as I have discovered, has a very specific type of woman that he is looking for, namely one who doesn't give herself too many wrinkles by thinking hard. Or ever.

The particular good old boy who stars in this story graduated from UGA, fraternity Kappa Sigma. He asked me if I would like to go out to dinner with a group of his friends. Apparently "group" meant two guys and their girlfriends.

Awkward.

All of the guys sat on one side of the table, the girls on the other. I was about to highlight what seemed to me a funny coincidence, when I realized that it was a very well thought out plan. They were eyes up on the screen behind us, watching the baseball game. They had done their job - brought the women out, ordered them some white wine, and now they were free of further responsibility. I was guided to my seat on the girls' side, with the dismissive "Erica, this is Emily, she's also a teacher."

Apparently that resolved any further responsibility on his part to entertain me. I looked askance at the glasses of wine and ordered a beer, trying to hide my legs and their objectionable jeans from the sight of my Kate-Spaded companions. Too late to worry about the fact that I hadn't brushed my hair  - but hey, neither does Giselle Bundchen, and I took what comfort I could from that.

I did my best to carry on a conversation, but it was an uphill battle. I think they had bleached out too many brain cells over the years. Jennifer's idea of a conversation starter was to ask me what my "sign" was.

"I...um, I'm a Scorpio. I think."

"I'm a Pisces. But, you know, I don't know about this sign business. I know a girl who
was born on my same birthday. And bless her heart (uh oh, this wasn't going to be good...never, ever do you want your heart blessed by a Southerner) but I hate her. Her sense of style is horrible. I mean, we could not be more opposite. And we're supposed to be best friends! It almost makes you not want to believe in Science."

Well this was not going well. I couldn't very well hold a conversation with a person whose belief in the order of nature rested upon her horoscope. I looked to the other side of the table in desperation, but turned away in disgust. I had my seat and my drink, and the game was on.

Erica began talking to one of the guys. She spoke for about 5 minutes and then giggled to me, "He never listens. I could talk all day long and not get his attention. Ready, watch this." And she proceeded to repeat his name over and over again.

 "Yes, Erica, I can hear you," indulgently, with both eyes still on the tv.

She squealed with delight.

"I hear everything you say, it's just runs on as a sort of background." he continued absently.

This was answered with more giggles as she turned to me and said, "Isn't that just like a guy?"

No guy that I ever cared to spend time with. I didn't know if I was more embarrassed for her or for him.

At some point during the night, UGA, Kappa Sigma told me that he had never met a girl who could have an intelligent conversation about history and sports and things. I wasn't surprised if that was a sample of the crowd he runs with. Honestly, he was probably impressed to find out I could read.

Still I was hesitant to admit failure. He asked me to come back to his house for a drink with his friends, promising "fancy beer." Twist my arm. I mean, really, every guy deserves a second chance.

Except the guy that thinks "fancy" beer is Bud Light with a Braves logo. I felt I had been lured in on false pretenses. When he saw my expression, he offered to pick up some wine instead.

"What kind do you like?"

"Malbec."

"No, I mean, what kind? Red or white?"

Okay. Failure admitted.

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