Why not?

by gooseandsoda

There is one particular phrase I use that often gets me in trouble, but also typically results in a story straight out of “Choose-Your-Own Adventure.”  In the purest form, it is:

Why not?

After a few of my favorite adult beverages, these two words tend to get spaced further apart with extra swear words and colorful adjectives such as, “Why the shit muppet-loving fuckness monster not?”  The intent and the meaning remain clear, though.  The question is rhetorical.  It means I have already thought through the consequences of what insane and (most likely) unsafe act you are proposing to me, and I have decided to do it.

Approximately eight months ago, this phrase led me to move across the country from Chicago to New York.  I had really never spent any time in New York save some trips with my family as a child, but I was ready for the next chapter.

My very first Saturday night here, I went out for a drink with some friends…who weren’t drinking.  And had to get up early the next day.  Basically, responsible normal adults, which I work very hard at NOT being on any given night beyond 9PM.  It was 1130PM when they decided to go home.  I was just going to finish my drink at the bar and then head home myself.  Best laid plans.

Upon exiting the bar, I learned a good lesson about finding a cab in the West Village on a weekend evening (or very early weekend morning).  That is to say, they actually don’t exist, and even if they did, they certainly don’t want to take you anywhere they can’t reach in 10 minutes.  Twenty-some minutes later, my dejected country mouse ass is moping slowly down the street to something that sounded like this in my head.

“Oy!  You thah!  Come wif us!”

My head perks up.

“Yes you!  What’s yoh name?”

Initiate sllllloooowwww turn around.  Two seemingly normal, not particularly attractive, Liverpool gentlemen standing there, staring at me in anticipation.  Had this ever, EVER worked for them before? I wondered.  Next thought: Fuck it, WHY NOT.

“Okay boys.  Where are we going?”

Shock registers on their faces.  Clearly this had not ever worked for them before.  We head to a bar down the street.  They tell me they are in town to do some Christmas shopping.  It may have been total bullshit, but at that point I was too busy getting drunk to care.  We headed to another bar, and now it was late enough to where the rest of the general male population was drunk enough to:

1. Register that I have a vagina

2. Do some quick head math on time of night v. probability of going home with someone prettier than me, and

3. Virtually ignore the fact I am standing there with two guys who are giving them menacing glares when they try to approach

Simultaneously, I was drunk enough to:


2. Spot the tallest man in the bar and convince myself that I always DID have a thing for Lurch

3. Think I wanted to climb Mount Everest

I marched over.  We danced.  The Liverpool boys checked in frequently to ensure I was doing okay.  They were every bit the classy gents I had them pegged for earlier in the night.  Lurch invited me home, and I smiled and said, “Why not?”

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