From Her Perspective

Recently, a bunch of girlfriends and I went away for the weekend to celebrate the end of one of our posse’s singledom.  We headed north to the prettiest town in the United States for a few days of unadulterated debauchery.  I think the innkeepers were less than pleased when we arrived with several boxes of wine, Andre champagne, and a sheet cake with a picture of, um, a boy part on it, but we didn’t have time to care.  We had a lot of drinking to do. 

The first night we had a private wine tasting, which was incredible.  If your wine knowledge is limited to what you can buy in the three-for-ten-dollar bin, I highly recommend attending one of these.  I now know that red wine doesn’t have to taste like buttery gasoline, and that the mark of a good white isn’t defined by how pretty the label is.  Though it doesn’t hurt.  The next night, however, was one for the record books.  You all know these nights, you’ve all had them.  The stars align just so and what you think is going to turn out to be a good time turns out to be one of the most fun nights of your life.  That is what happened that Saturday, when we decided that after a bottle of pink champagne apiece and finishing off the rest of the good bottles we had acquired the night before, we were going to the only bar in town and wrecking shit up.  So we put our glow necklaces on (come on, it was a bachelorette, we had to do something lame), and stumbled down the street.

We entered the bar, which, for a tiny little town in Northern Vermont, was packed.  The lone bartender with fancy gelled hair and tight black pants looked like he wanted to throw himself down the stairs as the well-dressed, sweaty patrons who had pillaged the open bar at the wedding reception across the street ordered round after round of shots and, oddly enough, red wine.  You know they were regretting that decision the next day.  Anyway, as we were checking out our surroundings, we saw in the corner a dance floor, complete with a strobe light.  So we pushed through the crowd, demanded that the bartender bring us rounds of Jack and Pinot Grigio (yeah, we were hurting as much as those guys we were making fun of come Sunday morning), and made it on the dance floor just in time to rock out to some vintage MC Lyte.  Well, I guess there is nothing but vintage MC Lyte.  Anyway, I digress.

Dancing, of course, requires coordination, a false sense of sexiness, and a willingness to sacrifice dignity in the name of The Dance.  Yes, we are rapidly approaching the age of thirty.  Yes, we no longer equate looking “pretty” with looking skanky.  We don’t stuff our bras with our college IDs and extra thongs for the next morning.  But we can still grab our ankles and gyrate like it’s 1999 (when we were 20 years old, and still hip).  And do not think for one second we didn’t make full use of that strobe light.  Hot poses are equally as enticing as our modified booty shaking, just ask the guys that came a-running to join us.  They couldn’t help themselves. 

Of course, when faced with a group of awesome dancers, people are compelled to not only dance with you, but sort of dance up on you.  I think that’s from a song, but I’m too old to remember which one.  So as we pretended to be lesbians with one another (the surefire way to make guys think you want to get freaky with them), these guys descended.  Please do not get me wrong, I love when guys dance.  I feel like it takes a lot for them to do it, so I respect when they feel comfortable enough to let loose.  What was weird was that instead of grabbing my ass or rubbing up against my tits, guys were pulling my ponytail.  Don’t get me wrong, I love being touched inappropriately, it makes me think I’ve still got it, but pulling my ponytail?!  Come on.  At least try to go to second base.  This whole G-rated crap is for amateurs.

As the night went on, we found that if we slipped the DJ twenty bucks, he would let us play our iPods while he manned the lights.  During one particular song, one that we really, really love, one of the guys thought it would be awesome to bust into the middle of our group and start dancing like an asshole.  Granted, normally this would be something we would not only condone, but encourage.  But it was bad timing on his part.  In a show of superhuman strength, I picked this guy up off the floor by his waistband and moved him out of the circle.  This is what happens when you combine cheap champagne with a boatload of Jack – you turn into The Incredible Hulk. 

When they finally kicked us out of the bar at the end of the night, we were sweating, out of breath, and amazed that we had been going for almost 12 hours, fueled solely by cheese and alcohol.  We were stars, invited to all the hot after parties, but we decided it was more important to finish off the cake and pass out.  We are almost thirty, after all.  It’s always better to leave the party early, anyway.  And to the Pete Manzo look-a-like, I’m really sorry I refused to call you by your real name.  You really DID look just like him.  What?!