Sometimes you have a moment of recognition when you see someone. It's that instant where you realize you know them but you have no clue from where. Your brain races as you try to place a face with a name or an event or anything that even remotely relates to the person before you. Then, quite suddenly, you figure it out and you come jolting back to reality. Abruptly you are back in the moment realizing the connection that seemed so elusive.
These sorts of moments can occur anywhere: the grocery store, school and even Hooters. On an average night shift a young man walked into the restaurant accompanied by a commonly pretty brunette. As they settled at their table I had the feeling that I knew the guy. It was a gut feeling that grew with every step I took towards their table. I knew him, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't place him; the feeling I had was awkwardly disconcerting.
As I took their drink order I made several casual observations about the couple at my table. First, checking the woman's ID, I noted that being born in 1974 she was eleven years older than her companion - she looked amazing for her age. She ordered a Bud Big Daddy with clamato (a quintessential Montana classic). The young man uneasily ordered the same and as he stumbled with his words as he handed me his ID I realized that he recognized me as well. He was good looking, but appeared self-conscious. He, like myself, had recognized me but seemed unable to place me.
Bringing their silverware and meal and refills I still couldn't place him. I was noticeably perturbed, adding to the uncomfortable nature of the whole experience. Then, accompanying a second refill, it hit me instantly. This guy was a drunken makeout of the most epic proportions. I'm talking hours of swapping spit on a couch while random music videos on late night VH1 lit the room. I'm talking waking up in the morning crammed uncomfortably on a couch with a guy you hardly know and realizing you were a lipslut again. Yes, I was once a lipslut and there over wings and beer sat one of my conquests.
While the realization shown in shades of red across my face, I saw a flash in his eyes that told me he'd figured it out too. We'd both fought through the drunken haze and remembered each other. It only made the situation more uncomfortable. The cougar instantly become possessive of her younger pray as if she knew exactly what was going on. While she clung to his arm, Drunken Makeout ashamedly averted his eyes to the wings before him. And then there was me uncomfortably backing away as my burning red cheeks clashed with the orange of my shorts.
Cowering behind the wall of the waitstation I suddenly realized that I had no reason to be so ashamed. I had the upper hand. He was with an aging and possessive cougar that gripped him like an animal. He was awkward in his conversation. He was wearing jorts, the fashion mistake of long jean shorts that should have died in 1998. I don't do insecurity and I most certainly don't do jorts. Here he was with his cougar and there I was looking smoking hot as Hooters Girl extraordinaire. Yes, I had the upper hand for sure.
So I walked out with confidence, smiled and continued serving the pair as if I didn't have a care in the world. Yes, Drunken Makeout, we spent a shitty night together on a couch, but I don't even care. I am a Hooters Girl and shit happens. Have fun with your cougar.