by Richard Meese

Created on: July 21, 2008

I remember the exact moment I became old.

I was in downtown Indianapolis at a bar that I had been to dozens of times before on business trips. It was a spot called Blondies which had a funky, 50s feel to it with a DJ who played current hits that drunken, overweight girls could dance to. Most of the women that frequented the joint were divorcees in their 30s trying to blow off the stress of single motherhood with a few brewskies, a lot of WAHOOS at the top of their lungs whenever "Celebration" was played, followed by jumping about in excited circles, midwestern boobs bouncing around deliciously.

It was the perfect feeding spot for a divorced guy from out of town trying to escape the loneliness of his hotel room (moi).

On previous trips, my MO was always the same. Scan the joint for someone reasonably attractive (preferably less than thirty pounds overweight), wait for her to consume at least two beers (the minimum amount required to improve my appearance) and try to make eye contact. If she returned my look of desperation with anything remotely resembling acceptance, I would walk over, offer to buy her a beer and ask her to dance.

This plan had worked reasonably well for the better part of ten years. Sometimes I would get some nice conversation and a phone number for the next time I came to town. Sometimes I would get some dirty dancing and some sloppy kisses on the dance floor and sometimes I would get some luscious memories that will have to sustain me now that I am OLD!

But I digress. On this one particular trip, I had just turned 50, but I was confident that I could get by with a claim of early forties. (After all, it had always worked before.) I arrived promptly at 9 (anything earlier is a sign of being a non-local and uncool), grabbed a Heineken and leaned against my favorite pillar with a view of the dance floor. It was a Thursday, (ladies night), and the joint was jumping. Since the beers were half price for women, consumption inevitably increased and the WAHOOS got louder. The jiggling got better, too!

Only this time, something was wrong. No one would make eye contact with me. Even the three and four beer consumption queens were ignoring me. I tried adding a smile or lifting my chin. Still no reaction. I tried moving a little to the music to advertise the rhythmic hip action that no midwestern desperado could resist. Nada. Finally, I lowered my standards and sought out women that were 50 or 60 pounds overweight. Still nothing.

Frustrated, I began a mad

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