I went out for drinks with some of my lady friends the other day to a place called a snuggery. The word snuggery should conjure up images of a place with cozy close quarters, tiny tea plates, and overall adorableness. Since the snuggery is such a cozy place, it’s also a place where you’re acutely aware of the people seated next to you. I’ve been there a few times and not been bothered by anyone, but whenever I sit next to the table in the far left corner of the front room–things tend to get a bit annoying.
The first time I went there was with Jewish Friend. She raved about the snuggery despite my protestations that snuggery seems like a made-up word, and certainly one I would require defined before I set foot in it. Finally she said, “A snuggery is a place where you can get both beer and cupcakes.” That’s putting it in terms I can understand.
She and I went, and sat in a tiny booth for two right next to the dangerous corner table. Seated at the table on this particular evening were a couple who looked, as I described them later to another friend, like two people who had recently discovered fitness. They were both rotund, but smug about it in a way that indicated they had previously been more rotund, and tucking into their food in a way that lets others know they’ve “earned” it. They were also really, really into each other in the way that rotund people who have recently starting dating another person who shares a love of food and hiking/biking are.
They also treated the server terribly, had conversations where it looked like they wanted to crawl inside of each other, and practiced aggressive hand-holding. At one point, long after Jewish Friend and I started actively ignoring their almost un-ignorable displays of affection, the man in the couple started crying. Apparently, his date had said something to him that was “so beautiful” it moved him to tears. Seriously, I’m not making that up.
Eventually, they paid their bill, produced bicycle helmets from somewhere (despite near-constant complaining that it was too warm in there and couldn’t the proprietor prop the window open with something?), and rode off into the dusk presumably to practice more aggressive hand-holding and have conversations like, “You like that? I love that! Let’s talk about that thing we both love and eat sorbet! I’ll feed you.”
This most recent time, we were seated next to the dangerous table full of picture-taking women. Again, the snuggery is cozy–you’re practically seated on top of the people at the next table, so when a middle-aged pack of hens take pictures over and over with the brightest flash known to man, you notice. What I failed to understand about this endeavor was:
- At least two of the three of them had cameras–couldn’t they just share the pictures?
- They weren’t doing anything other than taking pictures. They’d pose, snap, then look at the pictures they had just taken. That was their whole evening. How can you look back fondly on a night where you just went somewhere to take pictures?
- They seemed to only be talking about the pictures they had just taken just after they had taken them and were looking at them. I don’t think you can reminisce when you’re sitting in the same place wearing the same clothes.
Maybe I’m missing the point, but I’ve grown terribly weary of people who go to bars to take pictures to post on facebook that seem to say –“Look how much fun I have!” How can you have fun when all you’re doing is taking pictures and posing for them? That’s like a family holiday, not a night of revelry.
Of course, given the fact that I was so close to these groups of people when they each incurred my wrath, they probably heard me making fun and are writing blogs about that angry, frowny-faced librarian-type who ruined all their hand-holding and picture-taking fun.