Saturday, January 19, 2013

girls night: no discretion required. And thank god for that.

I love me a good girls night.

I know what you are thinking. As part of a roller derby team, I should have had endless girls nights. After all, the entire sport of roller derby is one unending girls night - right? But when you are rolling (sometimes literally) in a group of 16, it feels less like a girls night and more like a field trip. I needed intimacy, dammit. I needed to sit down, turn on my oversharing light and order exactly the right amount of sushi because, after years of practice, we know how to do this.

And so, an official girls night out was declared.

We decided to pregame at a martini bar - don't worry, they make an excellent Shirley Temple. The girls have shown unwavering support of my sobriety, and exhibited a willingness to drink my champagne reserves for which I am forever grateful. During dinner, we talked about the reasons why I didn't drink, and how good it felt to have made the decision once and for all.

"I will say this:" I declared proudly. "This New Years marks the first time I have ever been in the Jack in the Box drive thru at 2am and NOT peed behind the dumpster." The restaurant, of course, was suddenly quiet at that moment. The waitress grinned. Boo cackled.

That naturally led us to stories of public urination that may or may not have happened, and the tools available to assist us in public urination, both reusable (environmentally friendly!) and disposable (individually wrapped!) I have never needed any accessories to help me with this particular endeavor, but it is good to know that the resources are out there for those women who are, lets say, less skilled in that area.

We transitioned into stories of small men with big penises ("That's right baby, I'M A TRIPOD!" one proclaimed proudly, or so the story went.) and kids who treat their mother's boobs like one of those enormous milk dispensers from a cafeteria ("My cut off point was 'If you no longer fit on my lap, and need your own seat next to me to breastfeed, then we are done here.'") followed by a spirited and educational discussion about being in a carnivale parade ("They stuck their hard peepees against my butt. All. Day. Long." "Well, you were wearing a glittery thong. I just saw a photo of your ass, no wonder they were hard." "Did she just say 'peepee'? Is she talking about boners? Or are we still talking about actual peeing?"
And then there was the fascinating conversation about implants, and a love story about dating a man who lives on another island. We all agreed that seeing each other two weekends per month sounded perfectly perfect. The bathroom stays clean, and you don't have to shave as often.

The only thing missing from our conversation was an actual man. And I am sure every male in the restaurant was thrilled to not be any part of it.

At the end of the night, we returned to the martini bar for another round (ginger ale and martinis!) and then I headed back to the house. I was in bed by 11pm; sober, full from a healthy dinner that included a salad, and I didn't have to stop at Jack in the Box - for any reason - on the way home.

I don't want to jinx myself, here.....but I may be growing up.

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