oh, sherry

It's official, I guess. The BF and I are now that couple—the ones who, already known for our mutual disdain of humanity, have actually got up and left a restaurant because it was "too loud."

We joke that we're doing all the Senior Citizen things early, but this latest incident really makes me take pause and ask myself, "When did I get so fucking old?"

It happened Friday night, when we returned to a Mexican restaurant near our apartment. We'd been there once before and had enjoyed a relatively quiet dinner, even if the waitress did try and push a super-sized laminated margarita menu on us.
Judging by the crowd on Friday, those sticky menus had been put to ample use. It was a T.G.I.Fridays-Good-Times-and-Great-Oldies style jamboree in this place, with the bar positively swimming with middle-aged white folks who didn't have time to change after another hellish day at Merrill Lynch. The BF and I were instantly taken aback by the noise of the place, even as were led to a corner table near the bathroom. What's worse, we seemed to be seated right under a speaker, which was playing Steve Perry at levels that must be illegal, even in Blue State NY.

We sat for maybe four minutes before trading glances and getting up to leave.

On the street, we couldn't believe we'd come to such. I mean, this was Memorial Day Weekend — isn't a Mexican joint supposed to be full of drunk Caucasians? What was wrong with us?

Here's the embarrassing part.

It happened again last night. Same restaurant, only this was a Tuesday. Surely the cantina would be quiet again, no? Hardly. This time we asked to be seated in the front window, thinking somehow all the glass would, I don't know, deflect the Lite Classix busting from the speakers. We cautiously sat and started munching on chips, even as we noticed that some other tables seemed annoyed at the slow service.

And that's when the salsa hit the fan. The lights went down, a multi-colored spinning party light came on and the soundtrack abruptly switched to a medly of "Happy Birthday" (not the copywritten version but a generic Chuck E. Cheese chorus variation) mixed in with "La Bamba." All the servers come parading through the restaurant carrying a cake to a corner table, where a group of fortysomethings were having The Best Night of Their Lives. And the lead waitress was frantically working a tambourine along to the music.

Now, when there's a tambourine involved, you know it's some serious shit.

At this point, the volume level in the restaurant had surpassed "amusement park" and was nearing the "airport runway" zone. The BF and I traded glances (again), dropped a few bucks on the table and left.

A few minutes later, we were first in line at McDonald's. Four teenage girls crowded the area behind us, one of them loudly singing, "I found you, Ms. New Booty ..."
At least it wasn't Steve Perry.