I spent this past weekend in a bustling, out of control, wild, and unruly city. A city filled with crazy college girls and boys, colorful underground trolleys, a 12:30AM transportation curfew, and a plethora of baseball paraphernalia. Yes, that’s right, I was in Boston. I thought to myself, “Mindy, as far as single men are concerned, you have wrung New York City dry. You need to go on a manhunt across state lines.” No, that’s not true. How sad would it be if I had to leave New York and go to Boston just to meet men? New York is huge, and although I may get a little loose after I’ve had a few beers, there’s no way that I have covered every disease free man in every borough in just two years! I actually traveled to Boston to do some stand-up comedy, yet for the purpose of this article, and to raise the stakes a bit, let’s just pretend I went to Boston for the sole purpose of looking for a man.

It is 11:00 PM. I am standing in a tight huddle with some friends. We are at a bar called Sanctuary. I sip my vodka tonic and begin to look around. My eyes widen in disbelief. I shut them and re-open them quickly, hoping the haunting image was just a figment of my imagination. It is not. I am surrounded by hundreds of tall, blonde women with disturbingly orange tinted skin, talking to hundreds of clean-cut men all wearing buttoned down collard shirts with stripes, checks, or a combination of stripes and checks on them. Perhaps I was unaware that tonight was a theme night. Or, perhaps the bouncer took one look at the pale, pasty, short, brunette before him, and let me in out of pity. I know that millions of women across the country pay money to sleep in ultra-violet tombs or squeeze through countless bottles of self-tanner, and that lots of middle class men in their twenties and thirties shop at the GAP or Banana Republic, but the situation at this Boston bar was eerily out of hand.

Just as I was starting to feel comfortable among the lemmings, just as I was starting to feel the music and bop a little to OutKast, and just as I was starting to feel the effects of my second vodka tonic, I felt a hand brush across my shoulder and overstay its welcome. Shortly after that, I felt a finger poke at my sides. Then I really started to freak out when I felt a palm graze my left nipple and then proceeded to grab a chunk of breast of its way out. I was outraged. This whole, “let’s grope this girl as we walk past her” attitude was unacceptable. After just ten minutes, almost every part of my body had been patted, squeezed, rubbed, pushed, pinched, or caressed. Scores of well-dressed Bostonians attempted to pass by me and cop a feel! Do people from Boston have absolutely no spatial relationship intelligence, no self control, or are they just lonely, desperate drunks? Maybe I am just so hot that men cannot seem control themselves. Or, maybe Boston men can smell a loose girl from NYC a mile away. I decided the latter of those two statements was true, and I promptly changed locations.

Two more vodka tonics later . . .
I’m at the upper level now sitting with my friend Jen. (I had to leave the main floor after picking a fight with an orange-faced blonde who was telling a striped, collared shirt that she had “zero body fat.”) Two guys approach our table. This is when the monumental event occurs. But first, some quick background information.

Wingman: A pilot whose plane is positioned behind and outside the leader in a formation of flying aircraft.

The wingman is an ally, an important partner and follower who sacrifices himself for the good of the mission. The social wingman plays a very similar role.

Social Wingman: The dude who is forced to talk to the friend of the girl his buddy is trying to mount.

Now, I always make sure that I’m hanging out with at least one unfortunate looking woman at all times to avoid the wrath of the wingman. Yet, on Friday night it was just Jen and I, and Jen is very attractive. Therefore, on Friday night I experienced something disturbing, frightening, and completely unpleasant. On Friday night, I TALKED TO THE WINGMAN! It was awful. There I was, being babysat by a man who was helping his buddy bang my friend! At first I didn’t realize what was going on, but later I began to put all the clues together.

I think that all women should be well educated on the wingman and his ways. Therefore, I have devised these telltale signs. Read them, learn them, and look for them.

Indifference: He asks you lots and lots of questions, but doesn’t seem to care about your response.

Boredom: He repeatedly looks at his watch and then back at his buddy

Platonic vibe: He mentions his girl friend, fiancé or wife

Gay Vibe: He mentions his boyfriend, fiance, or husband

Confession: You ask him for his number and he responds with, “Nice try baby, but I’M THE WINGMAN!”

To all the women reading this who now feel that they have spoken to the wingman countless times, chin up! I’m attractive, and I was still wingmanned. It doesn’t matter. There is no rhyme or reason. But, here are a couple of things you can do to gain power in a wingman situation.

Be Obnoxious: You know he’s not really into you, so make his job miserable. Start telling him long stories about your family and your dead cat Dudley, asnwer all his questions in the form of a hand puppet, tell him about your pet tampon, Sheila . . . anything to make him work extra hard.

Confront Him: Ask him a question and then when he responds, interrupt with, “I know why you’re here, I know who sent you!”

No matter what you do, at least remember this one cardinal rule:

Never fall in love with the wingman!

A woman needs someone who adores and worships her, not some dude who settles for her because he lost the other girl to a quick game of paper, rock, scissors. Here’s what happens when you settle.

IQUIRING STRANGER: So, how did you guys meet?

YOU: He was my wingman! See, he wanted to screw my friend Karen, but his buddy got first choice. So, he ended up talking to me for a while, and then we got really drunk, and now I’m pregnant with his baby, and every day I’m learning to love him a little more.

So the moral of the story is:
When in doubt, don’t settle for the wingman, and when in Boston don’t go to Sanctuary.