It’s 5:35 p.m. and all I’ve eaten for the day is a handful of fruits and a grilled cheese sandwich. I look like J-Lo circa 1995 in a strange all-black pseudo catsuit, and I’m about to go drinking with my girls, even though I’m kind of starving.
Gucci Mane’s Wasted is blasting, Diary of Bridget Jones is playing, and my bedroom looks like a clothes-horror show, complete with fake hair + high heels galore.
And I haven’t even done my makeup yet.
Welcome to my Friday nights, folks.
I already know what’s going to happen this evening; partying in Western Mass is predictable. I’m going to drink beer (not wine or mixed drinks) with my girls, because all of us drink beer like grown men. We’re snobby about our hoity-toity beer, with German names. I already know I want a Double IPA. Men might stare at us–after all, we’re a good looking bunch–but 95% of my friends are married, and the other 5% couldn’t be bothered.
We’ll talk about all of the crazy parties we went to 7 years ago, when we first moved here. We lived for the Thursday to Saturday night parties. Now we arrange potlucks and calm nights out where we discuss the job market and farmers’ markets, sleek trips to other countries, or campy road trips in the U.S. We’ll trade stories of bad dates and worse boyfriends. After it all, I may have an after party tea with Ya. to discuss the tragically dressed hipster who tried to pick me up.
But the night is young, and none of this happened yet. I’m ignoring my hunger pangs, + the slightly messy apartment, doing my makeup, picking out my earrings and sleeve of bangles. My heels are already on.
After all, the girls are waiting.