The wingman is an impossibly selfless and depressingly necessary component when talking to a foreign member of the opposite sex.
The wingman can be bad. They can be rude, annoying or awkward, and what does that say about you?
They can be too good. If they are funny, they’ll steal your thunder. If they’re too good looking, well … you’ll look bad.
The purpose is to make you look better. Better than you really are. So wouldn’t a beautiful woman, a wingwoman, do the trick?
The answer, simply, is no.
I learned this first hand at a bar aptly named Teasers in St. Simon’s last weekend. Our group arrived at around 10, with 19 people crowded into a van taxi. I quickly bored of playing pool in the back, and went with my friend Fred to analyze other costumes.
We spotted an above average Betty and Wilma, and we decided to talk to them.
I asked what their costumes were, not because we didn’t know, but so they would ask us what we were.
First, it should be known that Fred is Jewish. I feel like I can say this, because for years he has lovingly called me Aryan. Anyway, we look different. He has a full beard, and I have 13 chest hairs.
Thankfully they inquired about our costumes, and our hearts filled with glee. With the precision that could only be attained by two guys who’d drunkenly annoyed their friends with the same joke for the last five hours – we responded.
“We’re Identical Twins!” we yelled, as our faces struggled to contain our smiles.
Somehow they weren’t impressed. Their friend interrupted to inform us that they both have boyfriends and pulled them away.
This phenomenon repeated itself a dozen times, until Fred was summoned by his girlfriend (remember to write future article about why guys in relationships aren’t ideal wingmen).
I don’t want to say Fred was a bad wingman. I guess the problem here was that we were more amused with ourselves than the women we were talking to.
Alone and dejected, I did what any man in his mid-20’s would do – head toward the closest live country band. Lucky for me, they were less than ten yards away.
A couple of the girls that had made the trip down with us sensed my despair, and asked if I wanted to dance. Dancing with friends’ fiancées and girlfriends is a difficult proposition. If you don’t have fun, then you’re boring, if you have too much fun, well that’s not ok either.
Although they were better looking than the other girls on the dance floor, they were relieved by my wondering eyes. Instead of formulating an undeniable plan, as Fred and I had earlier, they started to push me toward another group of girls.
I’d imagine that this method has worked for them. Get a big group of girls together, giggle, and bump into guys. I’m not a girl, but I’m pretty much positive that this is how it works.
The first time I bumped into the girl they had chosen as my ideal dance partner, it wasn’t that bad. I glanced over my shoulder, said sorry, and tried to smile. I think I’ve read that smiling is good in either Maxim or Seventeen magazine.
After the first bump it got a little weird. Sure, I should have just asked if she wanted to dance, but I didn’t. And with Dixieland Delight playing in the background, I found myself trying to shuffle appropriately, all but abandoned by my most recent dance partners. They remained a couple feet back, like proud mothers, prodding me to “go for it.”
I’d been uncomfortably in their space for too long now, and this was clear to all parties involved. By chance my beer was empty, and I suddenly really needed another drink.
I returned to the friends, and they seemed amazed that their master plan hadn’t worked.
Maybe it was the girls, maybe it was the country music, and maybe, just maybe, it was me. But I spent the rest of the night dancing by myself.
Dancing with girls is overrated anyway.
5 months ago