It has become abundantly clear to me that somewhere between age 21 and age almost 24, I lost my bar swerve.

This is baffling to me. Practice should make perfect, and as there was a stage in my legal drinking career when I would buy one drink before finding some willing male to pick up the tab for the rest of my night, I feel like I should not now be at a juncture where I’m going home early, dejected and tired of being the one buying rounds.

I don’t think I was significantly better-looking in college. I mean, sure, I used to get all cute and stuff when I went out, wearing a dress, contact lenses, and maybe some eyeliner instead of my glasses and Sherlock Forest boots. And okay, maybe I was a lot more willing to make small talk with idiots in order to exploit them for a vodka soda or two. And fine, I often ignored my friends to make coy eye contact and bite my lip a few times at some willing victim.

I’m not sure I’d call it maturity, what I’m doing now. Suddenly, I’m one of two personalities at the bar: the awkward girl standing stiffly in the corner, nursing her beer and avoiding eye contact because I hate everyone in my vicinity for their stupid drunk antics, or I’m starting a dance party, provoking my friends, and obnoxiously commanding the center of attention with the same kind of stupid drunk antics my other bar personality hates. There’s a decisive lack of obvious cleavage, eye contact with males, and willingness to entertain inane conversation in exchange for an alcoholic beverage, and I’m not sure I actually see that as a problem.

Effectively, I kind of see being good at the bar scene a little like being good at Twitter: Are you pretty, and can you be funny and timely in 140 characters or less? Because that’s all the dim-lighting and deafening acoustics are going to allow you. This is why celebrities excel at Twitter. This is also why they excel at the bar.

There are a few average people out there who get it. For instance, I found myself staring jealously at a couple of women at a wine bar the other night. Initially, I was staring at them because I couldn’t avoid it. Both were highlighted blondes with huge fake boobs, and their outfits resembled that scandalous number Jennifer Lopez wore to the Oscars back in the day: shrink-wrap-like tightness and barely enough coverage to avoid seeing an areola. They were bra-less, perky, and heavily made-up, and it was impossible to do anything other than gape, open-mouthed, from across the restaurant. Even I couldn’t look them in the eye, so I’m not sure how males would defend themselves against the overpowering nature of their jugs.

Once I got over my shock at the sexual elephant in the room, I watched as these women worked the other patrons around them, particularly men with obvious money. They’d lean over the bar, tits-on-parade style, and poutily ask for something. The bartenders, caught by an apparent boob tractor beam, would trance-like give them anything they wanted, and then some man near them, also caught in the magical forcefield of oozing sex, would suggest that the bartender put that on his tab.

I spent a couple of typical Laura moments disgusted with the human race, and then realized that these women, who may have had a combined IQ of 100 (but, hey, maybe they were physicists or engineers, how do I know), were actually genius. They didn’t have to go home with anyone, they didn’t have to use their wit to make up for anything, and they didn’t even have to hold a conversation with anyone but each other, yet they were going to drink and eat for free all night long.

Touché, ladies. I need a lesson from you. You’ve pared the icky human interaction element of a night out down to a mere moment of conversation through the bartender. If you ever do meet someone who can surmount your monumentally intimidating sexual wall and see past the silicon to your true soul, you’ll know you’ve got a keeper. And in the meantime, you’ll never wake up regretting all the rounds you bought for your friends.

Me, on the other hand? I’ll be the one judging you Debbie-Downer style across the bar, or the one making a fool out of myself on the dance floor, in hopes that some equally-awkward male suitor will join me for a dance-off or something. Instead of fighting your sexual prowess, I’d like to take this moment to cultivate some mutual respect between yourselves, who work the bar like it’s your own, and me, who’s regressing in her ability to interact in places with dim lighting and alcoholic beverages. Pour one of those free drinks out for me. I’d do the same for you, but I’d have to buy it myself, and that kind of seems like a waste. Maybe if it’s dollar whiskey night.