The Cute Girl Fail

           I’ve been offstage for about two minutes. I’m still feeling a lot of adrenaline – people laughing at your jokes is as good as any drug in the world, when they applaud and whistle after you tell a story it’s not unlike being on a plane that’s taking off. People are bobbing around, swarming the bar; it’s intermission. I’m standing by myself, because my only friend in the place is here in an official capacity and can’t exactly spend all her time hanging out with me.

            Out of the morass emerges a thin, good-looking blonde woman, maybe 28 years old. She approaches me – clearly nervous, as though I were a real celebrity – and says, “Hi, I’m Becky.”* And I’m all: Bleagh.

* I don’t actually remember her name. One thing I can tell you for a fact is that it was not Becky. Sorry, Becky. I’m sure your real name sounds less like that of a spunky tomboy in a 50s sitcom.

             Okay, I made a better show of if than that. We talked a little bit about storytelling, I learned she was from Orange County, and I told her that I did this because I would never go skydiving. (The number of times people approach you after a storytelling show and go, “You’re so brave, I could never do this!” is astronomically high. Enough to make me kinda-sorta believe that more people fear public speaking than death.) But the conversation fairly quickly petered out, and I could feel myself once again performing an act that I’ve grown fairly tired of: the cute girl fail.

            The cute girl fail goes like this: I tell a story. It’s funny, or sad, or (preferably) both. After the show, a cute girl plucks up her courage to come talk to me. (Speaking of things I would never do. I can get onstage in front of 300 people, but walking up and talking to a stranger after the show? Never. Never, ever.) She tells me my story was great. I say thanks. We kinda stare at each other for anywhere from 30 seconds to five minutes, exchanging very nonspecific pleasantries. I am intensely aware the whole time that I should be doing something different. Somehow this conversation should end with the cute girl’s phone number in my pocket. Instead, I descend into a sort of lockup that I know communicates something I don’t want to communicate: Please stop talking to me, cute girl. Your advances are unwelcome. Eventually, she says, “Well . . .” And then she wanders off.

            Becky stuck it out for a little while. I said something else that made her laugh – that felt like progress – but eventually we got to the, “Well . . .” moment. I said, “Glad you liked it.” Then she melted back into the crowd.

            After the show I was outside, waiting for an Uber, and Becky and her friend emerged from the venue. We made eye contact. She gave me a little wave. I like to think I smiled. But did I? Maybe I just stared at her like she was actively melting, eyes sliding down her face like fried eggs down a wall. Yikes, did I do that?

            FAIL.