It’s too nice to make this post long, and I have too much to do today (starting with picking up my car left in Harvard Square, when a couple of people bought me a couple of beers).

However, I do have to post something. That something is the thing with doing comedy sometimes I think it’s like I’m given another shot to reenact my twenties, but knowing what I know now. So last night, after a fun set at the Comedy Studio, which I really should have plugged here before the show, I hung out afterward. The thing to know is there are a couple of comedians who are a brother duo, who are also pretty much pranksters. So, any night in which Dave, the elder brother, is being the cruise director is not going to be linear. It turned out he had us walking from bar to bar down Mass Ave (I guess that is linear), and we ended up at the Phoenix Landing, where the young people were dancing to urban dance mix-ey kind of stuff. The crowd was “urban,” as they say in politically correct code for Black and diverse minorities.

There I am in my five foot three fortiness. I don’t know, maybe it’s the long hair with blonde streaks, maybe it’s the ampleness that seems to be the cultural ideal everywhere but in my own, or maybe they all could sense I missed my man like crazy, but all over the bar, guys were trying to get me on the dance floor. As an aside, when exactly in history did it become socially acceptable for a guy to rub his chubby up and down a stranger’s ass and thighs? Fellas, if I want to feel that particular body part, why don’t we do this–I’ll tell you politely that’s what I want, OK? Until then, why don’t you just rub against a wall or your hand or something.

The part I like about all of this scene, though, is that in my twenties I would have probably done something foolish, or been overly flattered or something. The inevitable outcome would be going home with someone and embarking on some kind of ill-fated romance guaranteed to end in shattered pieces and a bit of despair and shame.

Today, though, I just think it’s funny. It’s a tiny ego boost and an adventure, and I’m home alone and laughing to myself, unsullied. And, even if for some ungodly reason I got ready to slip, going out with a pack of male comics is a lot like going out with your brothers. You have someone to watch your back and possibly even protect you from yourself. I could have used that kind of chaperone back in my twenties (although I would have missed a lot of wacky good times, too).

Finally, to the guy who looks like Hank Azaria, sorry you were too drunk to understand “I have a boyfriend,” and thought I was some kind of tease.