The Call of the Not-So-Wild, or A Gentle Reminder of How Awesome My Friends Are

I went to happy hour on Friday with a select group of folks from work. This came about because of a lunch conversation during which we mentioned how blah and vanilla everyone seems to be in our office. This bunch seemed to have the potential to be a fun bunch, able to riff about pop culture nonsense on the same level as me, and liked most of the same things I did. Add some alcohol to this mix and we should have the recipe for a pretty good time.  Or so I thought.

We carefully selected our test group for this first happy hour, making sure to only bring people we wouldn’t mind knowing how we behave outside of work. A fun and well-stocked bar near Boston Common was selected and we made our way. During the 10 minute subway ride, the discussion was mostly work stuff…I figured they’re probably just waiting until we’re in a more comfortable setting to start up the stories of times they drank 22 beers during a 4 hour car ride, and other stories of high jinks that every normal person gets into.
We arrived at our location, bellied up to the bar, and placed our orders:
A house red wine, not the most fun, but whatever, to each their own.

Another wine, this one something I can pronounce, but not spell, so I’ll just say it was red-ish.

A draft beer, one of the funky brands on tap; good selection, ok, now we’re getting somewhere.

A double IPA (my order), in the bottle, thank you, no glass is needed. I have no time for pouring! Besides, my beverage was immediately enveloped by my trusty coozy, all the better to keep it cool and delicious, you see.

After ordering, the conversation picked back up and was still work-based. Hmm…this is got to stop before it makes my Friday evening suck. So I asked what plans everyone had for the weekend.  One was hanging with her sister, catching up on some DVR’d TV, the other was relaxing after just coming back from vacation, and the third was heading to a late dinner that night with a friend, then probably shopping with her boyfriend that weekend. Jeez, it sounded blah. All I needed was Frank the Tank saying there might even be a trip to Home Depot…you know, if there’s enough time.

We eventually moved to a table, and chatter bounced from work to some of the places around Boston that are fun to go for a beer and an appetizer. Helpful restaurant suggestions to be sure, but still a little tame. No one felt the need to share any new ridiculously convoluted sexual positions with colorful names, like the Jamaican Chimney Sweep or the Mexican Avalanche.  No one decided to randomly break into song, or serenade the next table with Journey, or even John Cougar Mellencamp.  And no one really seemed all that excited to be out and about in a wonderful city on a Friday night, pay day at that, a little money in our pockets and an appetite for silliness.

What the shit?

That’s when I realized something: Florida isn’t the most delightful place; that’s why I left. But it’s not necessarily things in a place that make it wonderful.  It’s the people. And in Florida, I know a lot of people who live there amongst the riff-raff (quite possibly making up a significant part of the riff-raff population) who are delightfully whimsical and with whom a good time can be had anywhere, anytime, doing quite literally anything.  After six months in Boston, I’m still on the lookout for similar personalities up here.

But it appears these folks, these co-workers so carefully plucked to partake in a happy hour/get-to-know-you session, whose potential hinted they could possibly develop into outside-of-work friends, and maybe even partner-in-crime level buddies…just don’t cut the mustard.  So my quest to meet fun people in Boston will continue, and it will continue outside of my workplace.  I tried to find some panache beneath the beige facades some people put up at work, but apparently underneath the beige are layers of off-white, eggshell, and mother-of-pearl.

So what does this mean? Am I far too rowdy to hang out with work people? I refuse to believe that.  In fact, some of my best friends, those I’ve had the zaniest of times with, are people I’ve met through work. Maybe all my wonderfully insane friends back home have set the bar too high for these mere mortals to live up to.  Maybe I’ll have to lower my standards, or at least my expectations. Not everyone can be Big Jim P, or Chuck Deuce, or Keef, or the Panda, or Rico, or Ska Mike, or Wild Turkey Pete, or Scuba Steve, or Frankie Slims, or Lumpy, or…well, you get the idea. So, I guess it’s safe to say not only should you not dip your pen in the company ink…you probably shouldn’t go drinking with it either, lest you be disappointed at how bland it is.