We’re single. And we graduated from Ivy League schools. Which can only mean one thing: we’re insufferable. But that doesn’t mean we don’t want to find someone special that we can complain to for the rest of our lives!
So, when we heard about an Ivy League-only singles mixer on the Lower East Side of New York, we both looked at each other, and shrugged. “Why not,” Alyssa texted to Alison, “It could be fun.”
Alison replied with a stream of knife emojis, while Alyssa RSVP’d for them both.
Sure, it was probably going to be awkward, and yeah, it seemed pretty desperate, but hey – it was free! Plus there was a full bar.
As we walked up to the entrance of the event, we kept our necklines low, and our expectations even lower. Thankfully, Alyssa had been to this liquor-filled sub-basement before, and knew all of the bouncers. No, really. All of them. As we walked up the stairs, one bouncer stopped Alison, looked at Alyssa and asked, “Is she yours?”
Having finished flirting with the hired help (Insert Harvard laugh here), we headed straight to the bar where we saw a few old friends from school: whiskey, and cheap beer. Alison ordered our first beer-shot combo, while Alyssa looked around admiring the sea of grazing blazers. We didn’t even ask what the shot was; we just did it and ordered two more.
As we downed them, we realized that we, too, were wearing blazers.
“Well,” Alison said, turning to the bartender for another shot. “We look great!”
It was clear that everyone there was bringing their A-game. And by “A” we mean “Asian.” It definitely felt authentically Ivy League.
A young gentleman leaned on the bar next to us to order, “the cheapest beer you have.” We immediately looked at each other, and just knew: he was not The One. Meeting a poor person at an Ivy League mixer? Seems like a total waste of everyone’s time.
Suddenly, a high-pitched yell came from inside a booth across the bar. Some supposedly brilliant Yale grad had spilled an entire beer on her table. Being the elitists that we are, we calmly stood around waiting for the maid or whoever to clean it up.
With that crisis averted, we got back to the task at hand: finding husbands. One man walked by, put his hand on Alyssa’s lower back, and whispered, “Do you know where the coat check is?”
She didn’t, and couldn’t help but wonder if that’s where he hid her engagement ring.
So far we had gotten zero marriage proposals, but had done like four shots, so we felt like we were getting closer to finding true love. One guy was trying to get the bartender to change the channel so he could watch the game he wanted, presumably so he wouldn’t have to talk to any women, so he was already prepared to be a husband! We definitely had some options.
Just as we finished another shot, a young Asian woman came up behind Alison looking almost as panicked as Alyssa’s mother when she showed up at Christmas alone again. She sort of shoved Alison in the side, and then glared at Alyssa in a way that could only be described as delusional. She muttered an apology to Alison, and then asked if she could get closer to the bar to get a drink.
If there’s one thing that we could understand, it’s someone at this party needing to get a drink. So you could imagine our surprise when she asked for a glass of water. As if staying well-hydrated was an actual concern, and accidentally drowning in the bathtub only to be found weeks later by your creepy neighbor Stu who then, in turn, waits weeks to call the cops is not even on her mind.
We were parked at the bar for however long it takes you to finish four beer-shot combos (so for us, it was like 10-12 minutes, roughly). At this point, a guy walked by us, screamed, “I went to Harvard!” in Alison’s face before touching her butt. Finally! A real prospect!
It felt like things were taking a turn, and we became slightly more optimistic about being able to find real marriage material at this mixer, especially since most of the guys were ignoring us as if they were already our husbands.
We left our perch at the bar, and stumbled through the crowd, looking for Mr. Right, or Mr. Not Wearing A Fedora. After searching for what seemed like hours, we finally found just what we were looking for: an outlet!
We both plugged in our phones, and continued to only talk to each other. We were now all the way in the back of the bar where it was considerably darker, which, for most of these uggos, was their best lighting. Alyssa thought she saw a cute guy waving to her, but it was just the blinking light on an ATM.
With our phones juiced up, and our drinks empty, we decided we should make one last play to get some guys to pay attention to us. So, we left. Guys always want what they can’t have – or have like barely seen.
Sadly, neither one of us was able to land a man at the all Ivy League mixer. But maybe that’s because college degrees, and pedigrees, and close knit Asian families don’t matter to us. Maybe it’s because what really matters to us is that you’d never go to an Ivy League mixer.
As we exited the bar, we knew there was a chance we were missing out on an opportunity to find real commitment. But that didn’t matter; we were already committed to getting pizza.