Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Girls' Night Out or National Geographic?

I was recently contemplating the last time I went out for a totally wild and crazy girls night out. You know, those nights you just want to dress like Snookie's slutty mom, drink too much tequila, and place bets with your girlfriends on who can last the longest in 4 inch heels? The nights you know damn well you are going to drink so much bad tequila you will be blaming that shit for your badass (awkward) dance moves and amazing (cat in heat) singing voice? Those nights.

We are old (late 30's) so we had a plan. Yes, we plan shit when we get older. Like your mom does.

We did all the right things: My friend's husband was designated driver (and security), we ate before we started drinking, and we asked the DJ to play songs that didn't suck. PS: Why do those assholes never listen? I HATE that dance remix crap. Just when you think you're moving in the right direction, they mix another stupid song in and totally mess up the groove. Pretty damn dangerous after you've had a few shots and you're dancing around in high-heeled boots. Disc jockeys, listen up: Play some funky leg-humping jams and let us act half our age for shit's sake. How hard is that? We don't care how badass your record scratching skillz are. This isn't 8 Mile. And you're twice as white as Eminem is. Knock it off already.

I gave that bitch some Levels!

ANYWHO - I was very optimistic about this night out, regardless of the fact the DJ kept playing douche-tastic spins that barely resembled any music I've ever wanted to listen to. I was maintaining a delicate balance on the heels of my boots, and I was feeling fabulous. Sorta.

Maybe the problem was that I was not drunk enough. I mean, in my 20's I was able to go out almost every weekend, drink until last call (and try to bribe the bar tender for a few extra) and almost always (key word – almost) stay on my feet. I swear, I had many, many EPIC nights out with my friends. We wore EPIC clothes and drank EPIC shooters and dissed the most EPIC douchebags. It was so much fun - wasn't it? Huh.... I think I was probably just so obliterated I didn't realize how much it really sucked. Blackouts were a gift.

This time around, I was more observant. I now realize how closely the bar scene resembles something from the National Geographic Channel. The predators (men or something resembling the male form) are surrounding the hunting ground (dance floor) waiting for their prey (drunk, half-dressed women) to fall so they can cull the weak ones from the herd one-by-one. The closer that clock gets to 2:00 a.m., the wider their eyes get. The saliva dripping, they start to growl; rubbing their paws together in anticipation. You can SMELL their desperation as they are making their selections. It's really quite sad. What's even MORE sad is the girls whose self esteem is dependent on being able to leave the bar with some snaggle toothed knuckle dragger who can't even properly hold her hair out of her face while she's puking, much less hold an erection lasting longer than 10 seconds.

Now, I can't say I have NEVER been that girl. Let's be honest. Shit happens. Tequila clouds our already-tenuous judgment. But, when you grow the fuck up and take a look at what is going on out there, it takes the fun right out of it.

My biggest annoyance is that, for some reason, most men seem to think that any woman on the dance floor is fair game. It's like they figure, well, if she didn't totally want to jump on my junk, she wouldn't be shaking her hips like that. Really, dude? We shake our hips for the same reason guys scratch their balls - because we can. (Or because we can barely stand). I'm a pretty independent girl, so I can handle myself, however, when I see some idiot going for a cop-a-feel move on one of my girlfriends, shit is gonna go down. Just don't, dude.

We shouldn't have to take self-defense class to enjoy ourselves. All I dream of is a world where women can dress like total whores, get completely wasted and have guys leave us alone so we can go home by ourselves and cry about how fat and ugly we must be because none of those assholes paid attention to us.

Is that too much to ask?