Girls Night Out

Today’s post is in honor of my best friend.

Best Friend lives in New York City. (She’s an Ohio girl at heart!) Being a cute, smart, bubbly, all-around-fun, late 20’s/early 30’s, NYC woman, she periodically finds herself in the position of hosting old college friends who come for a visit. Single women. Who want to come to the city and live their own personal Sex and the City episode (SatC Gals). SatC Gals expect Best Friend to provide that experience. Like it’s a hosting duty – sure, you can stay for a weekend with me, my fiancé, and our dog. In our 500 square foot studio apartment. And I’ll be your tour guide around the city. And don’t worry, I’ll totally provide you with an experience that is just like a T.V. Show…

When SatC Gal calls to give Best Friend her finalized dates and times of her visit, she casually mentions that she and her boyfriend just broke up. And she wants to have “girls night out” when she’s visiting.

What she thinks this means: We will go out to a sleek, polished, hip bar, dressed up in our uber-stylish new outfits. Sipping pink cocktails in martini glasses, perched on barstools, we’ll laughingly and condescendingly compare notes about men – what’s wrong with them and how they are in bed – shaking our heads and affirming that it’s their loss, we’re fantastic. All the while, we’ll be laughing and flirting with the handsome, charming, flock of men fluttering around us. Fending off man after man. This is girls night out, boys. We’re dressed up like this for ourselves, not for you. We are here to talk to each other, not you.

What it really means: I want you to take me out to bars and help me pick up guys. Because I’m single. I don’t care that you’re not; I need you to help me reel them in. Even though I won’t be able to keep them, once you do. Because I’m not smart enough, cute enough, or funny enough to hold my own with guys. Even if I normally am, I recently got dumped and my self-esteem is shattered. I reek of desperation, and guys won’t come within 10 feet of me. Then I’m going to be passive-aggressively pissed at you all night because the guys keep talking to you and not me.

Poor Best Friend called me a few hours before “Girls Night Out” was supposed to start. She was carb-loading while we talked. Seriously. She was preparing for the evening like she was training for a serious sporting competition. She had been hydrating herself all day, making sure she ate a slightly larger than normal, carb-loaded dinner, then planned to take a quick nap. After the nap, she’d have a Diet Coke to pep up. As she explained this whole regimen to me, between bites of pasta, she sighed.

Sometimes it’s hard to be the WingGirl.