If you want to know what girls night looks like, here is a peek inside. Girls, you will recognize this night. Guys, this is probably how you imagined it to be.
At 8:20 we all start trickling into the restaurant for an 8:30 dinner. Our table isn’t ready and our entire party hasn’t arrived so we sit to have a drink at the bar. I am sitting with a friend who has been trying to get over being dissed by a man she has been casually seeing and swears she will no longer see or speak to. As everyone shows up she is completing the story. We are all sober at this point and throw around terms like “be strong” or “you deserve so much better.” We actually believe it. We may or may not start quoting Oprah.
At 9:15 our table is finally ready. We have all had at least one drink that involves a variation of ingredients. All share the common denominator of tequila. Some of us have had two. We are led to our table by the hostess. The waitress arrives and takes our drink order. We all share a bottle of wine. Two of us continue to slurp down our cocktails. The bread arrives and we are all tipsy enough to dive into the basket like we haven’t eaten for weeks.
After we have made our way through the first bottle we now believe, with 100% certainty, that our waitress is our new best friend. We concoct some type of cheer and our table of four has become varsity team of sorts, only with no sport. Unless drinking is a sport. Then we may win.
One friend mentions where we are headed after dinner. It’s a birthday party for a friend of ours in a dark lounge type bar. The friend who is getting over the faux breakup mentions that is where she went with her guy last. This time the girl power in her voice at the beginning of the night starts to soften, and is replaced with a nostalgia that only a bottle of wine can bring.
“He is a jerk.” One friend calls from across the table.
“He’s probably gay.” Another friend cries.
“Cheers to that!” We say. We all clank glasses. We are lucky they don’t break.
We decide the wine is bringing us down. The waitress arrives and we tell her it’s tequila time once again. This time it’s infused with jalapeño. Aren’t all margarita drinks now infused with something? Kale? Bone marrow? Bacon? We become rowdy. Two of us leave to use the bathroom. Power in numbers. We stand in the bathroom, re-applying lip-gloss that will go wasted as we are about to eat our main courses. My friend pulls out some type of Sally Hansen spray on leg bronzer, which I don’t even understand how she fit in her purse. I silently wonder what else she has in there. I quickly learn as she continues to pull things out. Lash curler, check. Deodorant, check. It’s like she stole a bathroom basket from a wedding earlier in the night. I wonder if she has a needle and thread.
We head back to the table. Only after I reiterate she looks beautiful 20 times. I quickly add her blouse looks better open. I take her from Kate Middleton to Kim Kardashian in ten seconds flat. That’s what drunk friends do.
“Really?” She says, as we head back to the table with her cleavage on full display. We dance through the tables to the music that is now blaring in the restaurant.
At some point, two of them may start to bicker over something ridiculous. There is an awkward silence as the other two of us sit and watch. One of us tries to turn the conversation to something else. The two that were fighting are silent, until one gives and joins the conversation again. The other one follows. They are friends again.
“I love you.” One says.
“I love you too bitch.” Says the other. Peace ensues.
Someone says something funny and we all start hitting each other as we rock back and forth in laughter.
“I’m crying!” One shrills. “Do I have mascara down my face?”
“No.” Everyone weighs in.
“Wait! Let me take a picture!” One of us screams.
We all put our heads together.
“It’s so cute. I am going to Instagram this.”
“Yes!” We chant. We think it’s the best idea all night. It’s as though she re-invented the wheel.
“Can we make a pyramid?” I ask. No one will actually do it.
We continue to snap shots of us. One of us holds her Iphone with an extended arm so all four of us can be in the picture. No one is in the frame.
We discuss bikini waxes, threading, highlights and our significant others or the lack there of. Tell funny stories about our children. Fill each other in on work and make plans for the summer that we will never keep. We try to top each other on who paid the least for their outfit.
After splitting dessert and befriending all the tables within a 20 foot radius we pay the bill. We toss around cash and credit cards. Only one person has the clarity to do the math. After a round of “Do I have anything in my teeth?”, we walk out of the restaurant and one of us has the confidence to finally smile at the guy seated by the front door. She continues to analyze the 20 second exchange for the next 10 minutes.
One of them decides she can no longer walk in her heels. We flag down a taxi. We laugh hysterically at the ridiculousness of Taxi Tv and talk to the driver. We ask him to turn up the radio. We are singing Lady Gaga at the top of our lungs and think it sounds awesome. We read his medallion and begin calling him by his first name. We believe he loves our wild energy. He probably wants to toss us out of the moving car.
We hop out and one friend wants to smoke a cigarette. Another says she hasn’t smoked in a year but is going to have just a few drags.
“Don’t let me do this!” She says, as she lights up.
She confides in me that she really wants to text the guy, but won’t. I tell her not to. That she will regret it in the morning. I ask if she wants me to hold her phone.
“No. I am good.” She says, tossing the lit cigarette onto the street.
I stomp it out, scared it will start a fire.
“You are such a mom.” She cackles.
At 11:50 we enter the bar and say our hellos. We make small chat with people we don’t care much about and hug others like they just returned from years abroad. The truth is, we all live in the same city. We are all Facebook friends. We could all see each other more often. But we chose not to. Or maybe we are busy. Either way.
My friend keeps glancing at her phone. She is obsessed with it. I know she is waiting to hear from him. We grab a round of drinks and throw our jackets in a pile on a random banquette. We start to dance in place. Someone spills a drink down my arm. I wipe it off on my leg. I figure I will smell like Cancun in the morning.
“This is where we sat.” My friend says.
“Me and Jarred.”
“Forget Jarred. He is a douchebag.”
“I know.” She says. I know she doesn’t know. Or at least she doesn’t care.
Now the DJ is playing Kanye. We think we are invincible.
“Fuck it. I’m texting him.”
“Don’t!” We say.
“Text him a picture of your tits!” My drunkest friend calls out.
“Totally!” I chime in. I mean, I know she is going to text him anyway at this point. She might as well go for it.
“Just one text. And not a word more.” Another friend caves.
At around 2 am we all go home separately.
In the morning I receive a call.
“I’m such an idiot. I slept at Jarreds.” She says.
I figured she would. I can only listen and hope she doesn’t do it again. She swears she won’t. But she will.