My Neck, My Back

The best nights are always the ones where you go out on a whim, do something spontaneous, and end up having the time of your life. Well, this was not one of those nights.

For one reason or another, my original plans had fallen through. Any woman will tell you that wasting two hours on your hair and makeup is a cardinal sin, and therefore was not an option. Forced to go out stag to be seen, I decide to hit up one of my familiar haunts. Choosing the safe bet, I opt to go to this little dive bar right before the Cape. It was a Friday night after-all, and the place was usually crawling with hot maritime boys from the academy down the street.

Taking a seat at the bar, I quickly realize that I am the only female in the place aside from the bartender. Normally I'd be thrilled with these odds, but I was also the youngest by a solid twenty years. "It's still early" I tell myself as I rehearse my order for my usual rum and coke. Normally, I'd need only stand near the bar twirling my hair while looking lost for a few minutes to get a drink. Historically speaking, this move would signal a potential suitor to come to my rescue without fail. He would gallantly offer to buy me any alcoholic beverage my heart desired, while flirting shamelessly. Again, this was not one of those nights. No one even looked up from their $2 draft beer to acknowledge my presence. I not only had to order my own drink, but pay for it as well. Good thing I brought my wallet.

After enduring "Sweet Home Alabama" and "Free Bird" back to back, I was one Lynyrd Skynyrd song away from wishing I suffered the same fate as the band. I came to party, and apparently missed the memo where my hot boy haven was replaced with "sad dad" night. Just me and a bunch of middle-aged dudes drinking to drown out the entrapment of a loveless marriage, and the consequent mid-life crisis. Something had to give.

Once the inebriation started to take hold, I got the bright idea (and bravery) to slay some karaoke. I figured maybe if I switch up the music by singing something more upbeat, perhaps I could lighten the mood. Strolling up to the DJ booth full of liquid courage, I confidently write down the most vulgar song I could think of to perform. Considering the lack of talent in the bar, I should not have been surprised as I hear my name called. I hadn't even made it halfway back to my seat 20 feet away, before I was immediately beckoned to return.

The sudden glaring contrast from the smooth sounds of southern rock to the violent beat-drop of a dirty rap song had everyone wide-eyed and staring at the source. Standing there awkwardly gripping the mic, I excitedly yell "this one is for all the ladies," adding a very obnoxious "WOOOO" at the end. Again, there are no ladies. The crowd does not seem to understand, nor appreciate my comedic irony. Upon belting out a less censored version of "all you ladies pop your p-word like this, shake your body, don't stop, don't miss." I knew I had made an egregious mistake.

Instead of playing out in the hilarious fashion I had imagined, pure mortification ensued. Mouths dropped. Pearls were clutched. Hail Mary's were said. Pretty sure I gave an 80 year old man sitting near the stage a heart-attack. Another man stood up, yelled "you need Jesus", before putting on a cowboy hat and storming off. Most people would have just stopped singing at that point. But I'm no quitter. 26 p-words later, and I could no longer look up at the crowd. Shielding my face with my hand, you'd think it was a sunny summer day and I had forgotten my sunglasses. Shamefully, I continued to sing the most sexually explicit rap lyrics in existence, all while dying on the inside.

After what felt like an eternity later, it was finally over. One guy in the audience clapped a couple times before someone from the back of the vicious mob that had formed said "don't you dare clap for that Billy", and Billy stopped immediately. I returned the mic, and then walked straight out the door. I didn't even stop to close out my tab. My debit card was now a casualty of war as far as I was concerned. To this day I cannot hear Khia's "My Neck, My Back" without having a crippling anxiety attack. Talk about social shock.