I recently wrote about the magical and rainbow-filled event of meeting a bar bathroom bestie. I was quickly told that this is certainly not the only encounter that occurs here. An entirely different scenario unfolds sometimes and it takes a dark turn into Dante’s Inferno. You’re waiting among the lowly peasantry in line, and then you see her. She glides by on a white unicorn and people are chanting, “Long live the queen!” as you look like a homeless orphan. Okay, rewind a little and come back to reality.
The bathroom line is long, and your hot mess express of a friend is dragging you to the bathroom so she can handle her business. Bitch. Now you’re affiliated with the tornado causing a hoopla and you probably don’t look your best, either. Mere seconds later, you’re staring into the soul of Satan herself. This broad has wronged you in an irreversible way. She’s your ex’s new girlfriend, old girlfriend, whatever. You’ll never ever speak to her and she…is…the…worsttt. “It’s Goin’ Down” starts playing in the background and you prepare yourself to show her how this would be settled in the animal world.
Or so you thought.
Your vodka-soaked heart begins to bleed and your clouded judgment determines that she might not be that bad. And her shoes are great, of-fucking-course. In a whirlwind of emotion, things take a turn for the fake as she starts to speak.
All of a sudden, you’re apologizing and hugging because HOES OVER BROS. She says, “I didn’t know you come hereeee! How are you?! You look soooo great!”
Your sober mind is screaming, “BITCH you follow me on Instagram. I know you know I drown my sorrows about my failed relationship drink here. Why are you within six hundred feet of me?” But twelve buttery nipples have twisted your usually cold exterior into a mushy pile of warm fuzzies and you embrace her with the warmth of a thousand sunshines. You exchange niceties and continue to supervise the zoo animal that is your friend causing a scene in the next stall.
Fast forward to the next morning, casually discussing the events of the previous night. An average story is about to start about someone’s almost-hookup, when suddenly…
“OH MY GOD. Guys. I just remembered who I talked to in the bathroom last night.”
A flood of horror overcomes the table as you recall that you “made up” last night. Guess what? You didn’t make nice at all, because when the clock strikes last call, you turn back into a scorned woman. The look in her eyes last night wasn’t friendly; it was a glossy look of pity. PITY is the worst emotion for her to feel for you, because BITCH, my life is great without him. How dare she feel bad for you? You deserve soooo much better, remember?
No matter how this encounter begins and ends, the important thing here to take the high road. It’s always better to suck it up and be nice to her face, and thank God you didn’t mention that you get wine drunk and creep on her social media like a Russian spy during weeknights.