I originally planned a quiet night in.

&nbsp;

When my friend, Cindy, heard about this, she would have none of it.  She insisted that I join her, her hubby, and a few friends for Happy Hour at a local Mexican restaurant that attracts a large crowd on their mammoth patio.  (Since the weather is perfect for 8 - 9 months out of the year in my fair city, patios equipped with misters for the summers and heat lamps for the "winter" are <em>a big deal</em>.)

&nbsp;

I hesitated.

&nbsp;

Cindy flashed me her ring and announced that sporting a rock transforms a friend into a Wingwoman.

&nbsp;

Oh.  O.k.

&nbsp;

She elaborated that men aren't intimidated my married women, so they'll make idle chit-chat in order to cozy on up to the accompanying single woman that they're truly interested in.

&nbsp;

Oh.  O.k.

&nbsp;

Sure beats Match.com hell.

&nbsp;

I accepted Cindy the Wingwoman's invitation.

&nbsp;

Happy Hour arrived, and we situated ourselves at a prime viewing table.  A couple of interesting prospects lingered at a table not too far away.

&nbsp;

And then...

&nbsp;

Cindy and I yakked and yakked and yakked and forgot all about this Wingwoman nonsense.

&nbsp;

When we finally remembered our mission while watching the band inside a couple of  hours later, we returned to the patio to find the interesting prospects gone while barflies mumbled gross nothings to us.  Ewwwww...

&nbsp;

However!  One of Cindy's friends invited me to a tragically hip (do people still throw out the word "hip", or am I tragically un-hip for still using this word?) party next Saturday night.

&nbsp;

So...

&nbsp;

The moral of this story is when you have fun with your friends and forget about boys, you are then invited to a groovy party (I know that word is out, but I am all about retro) where who knows what might happen.

&nbsp;

To be continued...