Bullfighting Woes

Many people are at a lost for words after seeing a live “Corrida de Toros,” or bullfight. It’s unlike anything they have ever seen, with all the brutality and machismo. I, however, found the scene to be all too familiar. As soon as the band started playing and the bull ran into the ring, I immediately identified with the poor soul. If you have ever witnessed me at a bar or club (or any place where cool kids go), then you know what I’m talking about. Consider this:

If I am ever found at such an establishment, it is usually because someone forced me to enter the “social ring,” alluring me with false promises like, “it’ll be good for you, Sachi” and “we’ll stick together--girls night out!” I stupidly believe them, and the second I enter the arena, I find myself alone and confused. All I see are bright colors; all I hear are loud noises; all I smell is my own fear. I am surrounded by strangers--some are laughing, some are shouting, some are even summoning me. Me? Really? I look behind me, assuming there’s a tall blonde in my direction, but I see no one. They holler again and even motion me towards them. I finally muster up the confidence to approach and scurry across the dance floor with uncharacteristic boldness. We lock eyes; he smiles; I attempt to flutter my eyelashes but end up snorting. Right when I am about to reach my target, he bolts away to “use the bathroom” or “answer a really important business cal” (from his silent phone). My hopes--dashed.

Throughout the night, a handful of guys send different variations of these mixed messages, all hoodwinking me in the end. Sometimes they find strength in numbers, inviting me over as a friendly group; other times they fly solo, even competing with each other for attention. And on occasion, nearby spectators even join in on the apparent joke, encouraging me to “go for it.” But they know very well what awaits me: another failed attempt at socialization. Ultimately, none of my peers are interested in anything beyond that particular arena. The signals, the lure, the hope for meaningful contact--it’s pure amusement to them. And I am a pawn in their game--an entertaining little puppet, a conquest. At the end of the night, they just want to see me die a slow and painful death before tying me up to two horses to drag me out of the ring, leaving a bloody trail in my wake. Okay, that might be stretching the metaphor...

The most striking similarity between myself and the bull is that we never seem to learn our lesson. We make the same mistakes over and over again. You’d think that after numerous red flags (literal and figurative), we would know not to chase after the cute guy in the corner (who’s way too well dressed to be heterosexual). You’d think we would learn to ignore the false signals, the mixed messages. But who are we kidding? These guys are well trained in their arena, whereas we, unfortunately, are just that day’s piece of meat.