Keeping Score

Turning in My Man Card

Well, I finally caved and let the wife convince me to go to Hooters last night.

Yes, you read that right. The wife wanted to go to Hooters.

I always joke in passing when we're driving around town looking for a bite to eat for dinner (it happens more often than you'd think, really), "Hey! Why don't we eat at Hooters?" ::nudge nudge wink wink::

"Fine by me," she'll usually say.

See, she used to go eat lunch there with the guys in her IT department at an old job. It's not that she enjoyed the idea of eating at Hooters, mind you; it's that eating at Hooters was one step above eating by herself in her cube. This is obviously an arguable tenent, but if you're anything like me, social dining is a mandate. So really, if there was any shock value to eating at Hooters, it had long since worn off, and she even grew a bit fond of the comfort-level of the food, evidently.

So, the wife and I stroll into Hooters, and I finally get my first real experience of eating in the famous T and A restaurant. I have to say that it was pretty uncomfortable for two reasons:

1). It's a little uncomfortable and awkward trying check out the "merchandise" when your wife is right there across the table from you, even when she understands why your eye is wandering. It's not that I find floozies waiting tables at a T and A sports bar/restaurant all that appealing, but uh, their uniforms are sort of designed to grab your eye.

2). I am just so not their target demographic. I'm just not that into organized sports (unless it's Da Bears or Da Cubs or Da Hawks), so the big screen TVs aren't all that appealing, and while I'd love to stare at the women there, even out of sheer "art" appreciation, I can't say that they're all that appealing. Add in the obnoxiously loud beer-swilling thick-skulled gibbons who evidently don't care if they're no longer in the non-smoking section, and you've pretty much summed up my worst-case-scenario restaurant.

Needless to say, I probably won't be back there any time soon.