I recently saw this post from the always hilarious Martinis and Minivans.
Totally relatable, right? Ah, memories. I totally had those body suits (a.k.a. grown-up onesies) in high school. The 90's were almost as weird fashion-wise as the 80's.
Thursday night was always Bar Night in college. Most weeks,
we went to this super ghetto “eighteen and up” club where we tried to scam
drinks and tried not to get dry-humped by random drunk dudes. (Ewww. Remember, we talked about this.)
But occasionally, on super special Girls Nights, we Michigan gals would cross the border into Canada where the drinking age
was only nineteen. (Did you know that a tiny portion of Ontario is actually
south of most of Michigan? And that teeny tiny sliver of Canada is the only
thing standing between Michigan and New York? Seriously, people, look at map.)
Yes, nights like these actually happened on occasion in my early
college days. We would shimmy into our pleather pants (that’s where polyester
and plastic come together to make a faux leather because that was considered hot
in the 90’s) and skimpy tops and show our real
I.D.’s to the bouncer to get into a bar that would actually serve us real alcoholic beverages. We thought we
were the shiz. In fact, when my friend
ordered our first shots ever at a bar, we were in Windsor, Ontario… and she
ordered us Jägermeister shots because it was the
only liquor she could think of on the spot. That's how young we were. So we downed the Jäger and pretended it was delicious when it really tasted awful. (Liquid black licorice? Really? Bleh.)
(I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to my parents – and possibly my grandmother – who may be the only people who read
this blog and may have been unaware of these events until now. I promise my friends and I were always very careful and nothing bad ever happened. Girl Scout’s honor.)
But now, I’m thirty-five years old, and Girls Night isn’t
what is used to be. No crossing the border into foreign countries. No pleather
pants. No microscopic hoochie tops. No shots of nasty liquor. Yes, Girls Night
is all grown up now. And sometimes Girls Night Out is actually just a Girls Night In (or G.N.I. as we call it), where my friends and I show up at one of
our houses after the kids are asleep just to laugh and drink wine as quietly as
possible. We’re not cheap or lazy or old (who am I kidding, yes we are),
we just want to talk to each other without having to yell over screaming toddlers,
crying babies, loud music or other drunk people.
Last Friday, we had a G.N.I., and I basically showed up in
my pajamas. Seriously: yoga pants, t-shirt, hair in a sloppy bun and no
make-up. I had to promise my friend I wasn’t there to spend the night at her house (unless
she was willing to have me over because getting up in the middle of the night to feed the baby who won't go back to sleep super
sucks).
It’s a long way to go from pleather pants to pajama pants,
but I like our mature Girls Nights much better than our young, stupid Girls Nights. Wine is yummier than Jäger, and I’ll
take some good girl talk over gross drunk dudes any day.
Holla if ya hear me.
