Things happen for a reason

Toward the end of my time in Arizona, I lived in the Quadrangle apartments, about a mile from Arizona State University. ASU is known as "the party school" (or was, at the time), and the Quads housed many students. My friend, Shay, and I lived on the first floor. I got to be close friends with the people who lived in the apartments directly above us. I was especially close with two of the guys, Jerome Vinagro and Eddie Bucci.

Jerome and I worked out together, and would drive up and down Mill Avenue in his brand new white Corvette. All three of us, along with many others, would go out to the bars, also on Mill Avenue. Thursday nights were a big party night back then. We used to go to this club, 411 (Eddie called it Club 4-1-1, like the information line), which had two for one Michelob Light pitchers. 411 was one of those dark bars, with florescent purple lights, and dance music blaring throughout. I think they may have even had a steam machine; at least that's my memory of it.

Whenever we went to 411, we always got drunk. Our goal was to get wasted as quickly as possible, because courage often comes in the form of alcoholic beverages. As the pitchers went down, our ability to go on the dance floor with women went up. I was never successful in going any further than the square tiles in the middle of the bar with the ladies. No one ever offered to go "back to my place" or invite me out for breakfast in the morning.

Shortly after Lyn (the woman I lived with who had three children, and who was divorcing her second husband) and I broke up, we started going out to the bars more frequently. 411, Maloney's, several others of which I cannot recall the name; if it was nighttime, we went, and if we went, we were getting drunk while looking for women. One night, at 411, a girl walked up to me and rubbed her hands on my face. "Ewwww!" she yelled, "you haven't shaved?!?" Deal breaker in her mind. Another night, a girl came up to me and asked me what kind of car I drove. When I replied, "A Nissan Sentra," she rolled her eyes, and walked away. And then there was the night at Maloney's I spent making eye contact with a woman across the bar. She'd look at me, I'd look at her; she'd smile, I'd smile. It turned out there was a guy standing behind me all night. I saw them leave together at closing time.

I had a couple of drinks tonight with an old friend, Cheri. She and I worked together for nine years. Cheri's been out of work for the past few weeks, and I can tell she's trying to keep her spirits up, and her contacts close. She seems very motivated in her plight to find work. She's going to classes, she meets with a work placement agency, she's constantly asking people to join her Linkedin account. Her resolve is upbeat, but I can also tell she's frustrated. What I thought was interesting was her mantras: "things happen for a reason," and "God has a plan." I too subscribe to these philosophies. If I didn't, I wouldn't be secure in the path my life has taken.

Years ago, as I was trying to get drunk as quickly as possible, and as I was trying hard to find a woman, I didn't think much about a higher intervention. But now, all of the failures I experienced on the dance floor and in the bars, make sense.