“ALRIGHT BOYS, IT’S GUYS NIGHT OUT…PLUS ASHLEY.”
I remember my first invitation to guys night out. I spent all day questioning and preparing for what was going to be an unforgettable night. What am I supposed to wear? Do I pregame as hard as them or pace myself? Should I wear a fake mustache to assert dominance in the group?
After hours of scrutinizing my every article of clothing, practicing my poses in the mirror for squad pics, and shotgunning a beer just to calm my nerves, it was time to go over for the pregame. My adrenaline was high, and I was amped as shit. I walked into the annex and was greeted by the guys smashing beer cans against their heads and taking pulls straight from the bottle. I had entered my own personal heaven.
From that point on, guys night featuring me was a weekly event. Like clockwork, every Friday night I would get the usual “you’re coming with us to the bar tonight, don’t be a pussy” text. I became one of the guys and the envy of my girl friends. I was living the life, and my ego, and heels, had never been higher.
However, after a few weeks of late night boozing and hardcore hangovers, my invitations became less frequent and my reputation as the “srat bro” began to diminish. When I worked up the courage to ask what went wrong, I was hit with the blunt truth: I mom-ed them.
What I didn’t realize was that I had been subconsciously nagging the absolute shit out of them. My maternal instincts kicked in and I treated them like they were fresh out of the womb. I would basically be dragging them by the balls out of the bar and shoving them into an Uber at the end of the night. I began carrying around Advil and Alka-Seltzers in my purse, and I found myself sending texts the next morning asking if everyone remembered to take their Vitamin C pills and rehydrate. I became the mom of their group, and no one was down to clown around with that.
I learned very quickly that invitations to guys night out are a privilege, not a right. By far, guys night out is way more fun than girls night out. The drinks flow faster, the backhanded insults were considered terms of endearment, and the nights usually ended with bruises, missing IDs, and random girls who I would occasionally walk home with in the mornings. The rules for guys night out are simple: there are no rules. They don’t give a shit if they wake up passed out in a Taco Bell bathroom two miles from home, just as much as they don’t care about the 10-turned-6 they hooked up with the night before. All they hope to achieve is getting shit-faced, potentially crushing some ass, and waking up with only a mild hangover.
Here’s the ugly truth of it all: if you can’t hang, you will easily be replaced, or worse, ghosted. You can go from being the weekly referee at Wednesday’s Beer Pong House Tournament, or the highly sought after facilitator of a shot for shot challenge, to the has-been replaced by the new freshman girl who thinks Burnett’s is high-class vodka. You’ll go from being the cool, chill girl who could crush beers faster than half the pledges, to the mom they thought they left back in their hometown. The guys will be just that: guys. And if you don’t have what it takes to keep up, they will not miss your presence on Friday nights.
A few weeks after being subtly ignored, I asked them to give me one more chance, one more chance to prove that I was still one of the guys. They reluctantly agreed, and that following Friday I got the text. I walked into the annex just before the pregame was set to start. Instead of being greeted with the usual beer bong and six pack, though, one of them threw his (disgusting) jock strap my way. Horrified, I asked what I could possibly need that for.
Smirking at one another, they said, “If you wanna be one of the guys again, you gotta start acting like one of the guys.”
So girls, if you think you can hang with the boys, I just got one thing to say: nut up or shut up..
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