6:04 PM: Decide it’s time to think about getting ready for the night ahead.
6:06 PM: Decide to start getting ready after one more episode of Girls.
6:36 PM: Ok, seriously, just one more episode of Girls.
7:45 PM: Text message from your best friend telling you to head over to her place at 8:30 to pregame. You haven’t even left your couch yet.
8:37 PM: After 1 shower, 3 outfit changes, 5 hissy fits, curling your hair, straightening your hair, threatening to cut off all your hair 6 times, you’re finally ready and heading over to the pregame.
9:12 PM: Walk into her house, greeted with a big hug from her and the other girls in the group, and jokes from the guys making fun of something you did three years ago. Some things never change.
9:30 PM: After bringing up every embarrassing thing that has happened to everyone present within the past 5 years, you up the ante on your drinking. You’re gonna need a nice buzz in order to survive this night.
9:35 PM: “What bar are we going to?”
“Well since you took your sweet time, we decided to go to Union Jacks already.”
“FUCKING WHY THATS LIKE ONE BIG HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.”
“Because they’re having all night power hour. $3 drinks! You can’t say no”
“I will and I am. Why can’t we go to Dillos?”
“Because Dillos is expensive and has no specials. Shut up and drink, were going to Union Jacks”
“I hate you people.”
9:43 PM: “So, uh, whose driving to the bar?”
9:56 PM: After playing a game of “how many beers has everyone had” and everyone using the bathroom, all 8 of you pile into the cab that was inevitably called. You’re not exactly sure who’s touching your thigh, but your praying it’s your best friend and not the guy who’s virginity you took the summer before college.
9:57 PM: It’s not your best friend. It’s the guy. Fuck.
10:10 PM: Arrive at the bar in one piece (barely) and borderline sexually harassed. It’s going to be a good night. You power walk into the bar because any buzz you had at the pregame was not only scared out of you from the drive over, but squeezed out of you from hand-on-thigh-guy. Woof.
10:15 PM: After chugging half of your vodka-cran, you finally look at the crowd in the bar. No one you recognize, thank God. You head to the dance floor with the rest of the girls, maybe it wont be that bad of a night after all.
10:17 PM: Spoke too soon.
10:45 PM: Two drinks down and one on the way, you look over to the crowd of people you never wanted to see again. Upon further review, the group isn’t just people you knew in a past, less blacked-out life, but from the holy grail of awkward: they’re from middle school.
11:05 PM: “Should I go say hi? I feel like I should go say hi.”
11:07 PM: “I’m just going to ignore them, they probably don’t even remember me.”
11:10 PM: “Fuck. I just made eye contact.”
11:26 PM: “FUCK. I MADE EYE CONTACT AGAIN”
11:45 PM: Five vodka cran and a free shot down. At least you wore boots instead of heels.
11:51 PM: “Fuck, guys, I’ve made eye contact at least twice, I need to go say hi. It’s just awkward if I don’t.”
11:53 PM: You go over to the group of about 3 girls, none of whom you’ve spoken to since middle school. They actually did recognize you, they just waited to see if you’d make the first move.
12:01 AM: Mayday! Mayday! You’re out of your league, the reason this group reconnected was because THEY ALL HAVE CHILDREN ALREADY. They range from ages 3 months (WHY IS SHE DRINKING?!) to 5 years (we haven’t even been out of high school that long). They’ve only had about two drinks, and go out on “Mommy play dates” once a week to talk about the struggles of young motherhood and to just get out of the house. Whoa.
12:03 AM: They start to cringe at your slurring. You ignore them and continue telling the story of the time you accidentally puked on your pledge sister’s back. You thought they’d identify with the whole “getting puked on” thing. They shockingly don’t find you amusing.
12:04 AM: You’ve run out of things to talk about.
12:06 AM: “Ohmigosh, LETS DO SHOTS.”
12:07 AM: After the three moms try to tell you that they “don’t do shots,” you tell them not to worry. You’ll put it on your tab and that way they’ll still have money to buy their kids’ formula. You also throw in a “quit being a pussy and do it.” Isn’t alcohol great?
12:10 AM: As you’re ordering your four shots, the moms quickly retreat from the situation. You turn around with all four shots balanced in your hands and they are no where to be found. “Pussies,” you mutter as you go back to your friends.
12:11 AM: Well, your friends saw every moment of that awkward encounter and they are nearly peeing themselves. “You bought shots for MOTHERS. It doesn’t matter if you went to MIDDLE SCHOOL with them, THEY HAVE KIDS. Get it together.”
12:23 AM: Blackout.
8:30 AM: Wake up with hand-on-thigh guy’s arm around you, and neither one of you has a shirt on. Fuck.
8:47 AM: “Where’s my phone? Where’s my purse? WHERE’S MY SHIRT?”
9:02 AM: “Hey, remember that time you bought 3 moms you went to middle school with shots and they ran away?”
“I’m not gonna live that down am I?”
“Get the fuck out of my house.”