A friend recently suggested that I write on the weird, comical, and crazy journey of the drunken college heroine. We all know how this ends: ultimately, in tears. The drunker the girl, the harder she cries. What’s really important here is understanding the process of how a sane, sweet, and vaguely unconfident young woman turns into the shoe-less, panty-less train wreck shamefully walking home the next morning at 10 am. For added interest and realism, I have decided to tell this tale from the girl’s point-of-view, as well as the sober outsider’s perspective. As a disclaimer, I assert no moral superiority to our fabulous and fucked up heroine; how many-a-time I have been “that girl”.
Beer 1: The Welcome Mat
Girl: [Yessss, tonight is going to be awesome. Oh, oh gosh, we’re walking into the bar, and I should be looking really hott and important. Where’s my iPhone, I’m sure there is someone who wants to text right now. Ok, here it is, much better. Oooo I should text Pete. No, not yet. I need at LEAST three more beers. If he doesn’t respond, I want to have been drunk enough that I can claim I don’t even remember sending it. Better yet, by about 1 or 2 am, it will look legit if I slip in a few extra “drunk spelling errors” just so he’s really clear that I didn’t contact him sober: Much better.]
Outsider: Self-conscious possibly cute (we can’t tell yet; the Northface is still on and fully zipped) 20-something co-ed shuffles into the bar. She does a “casual” sweep of the bar hoping to see friends, or even vague acquaintances, that she can greet loudly thereby increasing her street-cred as a cool and seasoned bar-goer. She continues awkwardly hugging these near strangers, asking them what their majors are again, and promising amorphous plans about a get together in the near future that both parties know, and are secretly glad, will never come to fruition. This is all done artfully, while sipping her beer and continuing to text her actual friends.
Beer 2: The Insecurity Mollifier
Girl: “Ooo, that guy over there is soooo cuuute. Stacey, look how cute that guy is! Maybe he’s not that cute? He’s cute right? Should I talk to him? Will you go tell him I think he’s cute?”
*10 minutes pass of this same redundant conversation.* Aforementioned “cute” UVA guy…A) already has three other hotter girls on speed-dial and pays no attention to our fabulous heroine, B) is so into himself he probably goes home alone at the end of the night so he can jerk off to how amazing he thinks he is, or C) is there with another guy. At any rate, this ends poorly, and our girl treats herself to another round, and convinces herself that her stunning good looks and obvious clever wit intimidated him into the lap of the brainless booby blond perched in the corner booth.
Beer 3: No really, my tolerance has like, totally skyrocketed!
Girl: “Hey, Ross! What’s up? Oh yea, I know right, there is so much reading for that class! But I mean, whatever, I’m just tryin’ to get drunk, right?”
[Oh shit! Kind of stressed about that reading, actually. Needs to be done ASAP tomorrow morning! Whatever, it’s fine, he totally thinks I’m cool. Hummm what else can I talk about to this guy that doesn’t sound super nerdy. His brain is like the size of a pea anyway.]
“Yea, sooo, crazy night right!? I mean, I’ve had like…at least 7 drinks already. My tolerance is so intense, I mean I go out pretty much every night. Yea, seriously, SEVEN, and that’s not even counting a few shots we took before we went out.”
[White lie. He’ll never know the difference…]
Outsider: He doesn’t care. Drunk male friends may be impressed by a woman’s Russian alpha-male like alcohol tolerance (which is mysteriously never even half as high as women think it is after they’ve had three drinks and are already tipsy). Drunk male acquaintances chatting with our girl at the bar just care how many drinks it takes until she starts making poor life choices and agrees to let him walk her home…and just come in to talk…and just lay down to snuggle…and bitch, just take your pants off already.
Beer 4: I just wanna dance
Outsider: Girl is getting antsy. She needs to nab a guy soon, or at least find one that will ask her for her number, otherwise she feels she has “wasted” precious hours, calories, and a hott outfit on a profit-less night. If a woman denies ever thinking this thought and claims to be above this disgusting, shallow, and insecure philosophy, she is lying.
Girl: [Ok, so like 1:00. Need to make some moves, but there is still a window of opportunity before last call! Time to text Pete: “heyyy betch, whatsas up?! U ourtt??” Perfect.]
Outsider: Girl decides to amp up the sexiness, and hit the dance floor. In Charlottesville, the anti-dance capital of the USA, this is preceded by a solid 10 minutes of whining to friends that she really realllly wants to dance, can’t we please go to Three so we can dance, and I know it’s shady there but just don’t put your purse down, right?
Beer 5: OMG, am I fat?
Girl: “Omigod. OMG, Kelly, look this is so gross. My stomach is totally sticking out from drinking these beers! I look fat right? No, shutup, you look fine, but IIIII look fat! Seriously! Look from the side. Right here.” *gestures to gut area*.
Outsider: This partially explains why it takes girls 20 fucking minutes to go to the bathroom when they go in groups. I don’t wish to spill all of the secrets of the group female bathroom ritual, but inevitably there is some sort of appearance pep talk that more often than not touches on self-believed fatness of the girl. In some cases, it may be true, but no friend (unfortunately, perhaps) will say, “Damnnn, I can see that gut a mile away. You look like a bloated cow.” What is even more mystifying, is that there is either no gut to speak of, or it was already there before 5 beers were consumed and perhaps chica should have hit the gym this week? Again, I’ve been here before myself and know I’m being irrational while it’s going on. Clearly, some sort of diabolic metacognition was at work.
Beer 6: Desperation
At this juncture, many poor choices become distinct possibilities. Examples include, texting (the sleeping, uninterested, and by this point annoyed) Pete repeatedly until he cracks and invites our girl over, or forever deletes her from his phone. Hey, at least something can be said for closure. Other avenues consist of ex-sex, an unexpected hook-up with a male friend that will forever make your relationship awkward, or-on a particularly drunk, desperate, and terrible night- giving your phone number out to the lecherous oldster soberly grinding up behind an unwitting first year. Said “oldster”is most likely a 30-something Darden student prepared to drop an oral resume at your feet, but sadly void of social graces, charm, or basic woman how-to. He may also show signs of a burgeoning belly-paunch signaling the onset of middle age and be sporting a low baseball hat to create a shady mask for the fledgling crows feet blossoming at the corners of his eyes. After debate, consideration, and blatantly ignoring the protestations of her wiser and more sober friend, girl gives out her phone number- a move she will regret upon waking up tomorrow.
Beer7: Waterworks
Girl: “Erin, I just don’t GET it!” *sob, sob* “What’s WRONG with me!?? I’m not hott enough? That’s what it is. It’s because I looked sooo fat in this.” *gasp, heave, sob* “I’m never wearing this again. And I’m never talking to Pete AGAIN. He’s stupid. I’m too good for him anyway!” “St-stttuu…” *SOB* “uupid PETE!”
Outsider: We have come to the inevitable teary conclusion of our tale. I ask you not to feel depressed by the end; I have chosen to describe an “unsuccessful” night, mostly in an effort to understand better myself why so many girls stumbling home around 2 a.m. in the arms of their friends are wailing and are, for the most part, inconsolable. More to the point, if women truly hated this sick twisted drinking scenario, they wouldn’t do it anymore. Or maybe we do hate it, but feel simply boring without the masochistic drama it provides.
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