Dear… (I’m sorry, I really don’t remember your name, but you’re the girl who helped me zip up my romper, passed me some toilet paper, gave me a tampon, etc.),
Hey girl. I hope you aren’t nearly as hungover as I am right now. Sheesh, I should NOT have let Caroline talk me into doing that third round of tall boys and Fireball. I hope for your sake you also have a friend who picks up iced coffee and Gatorade. And if I miraculously run into you while we’re dragging our headaches and our dry mouth to brunch I promise to buy you one at the nearest 7-11.
I don’t know if it was just the vodka sodas talking but damn girl – you are probably one of the nicest human beings I have ever encountered. You’re always right there with an extra hair tie, knowledge about the hottie playing skee ball, or makeup wipes you’re so willing to share for when I look in the mirror and see the melted pile of foundation I have become. You compliment my top and tell me over and over again how I look like Zooey Deschanel but “Like, if she were hot.” You’re really good for a tipsy self-esteem boost.
Girls always get such a bad reputation for being so mean to each other and, well, that rep is kind of deserved. I’ve been elbowed in the ribs by many a Jennifer who was not having the ridiculous wait time for a drink. I’ve had a girl tell me to check myself because she failed to take into account the riskiness of carrying two, full, 16 oz Bud Lights in a beer garden at a baseball game and was upset when bumping into me spilled them all over her $40 racerback. But you, Girl in the Bathroom (Can I call you GITB? I feel like we’re at that level.), you are like a shining, beacon of female camaraderie.
It doesn’t matter that you’re more Madewell, I’m more Free People. The bond that we have, GITB, is unexplainable. We’ve known each other for five minutes and have merely exchanged equally as slurred compliments like “OMG I’m tooootally obsessed with you” and that’s it. 2gether 4eva. We have inside jokes I don’t even understand. I’m not sure why you’re doing middle finger guns at me from across the bar after we’ve gone back to our respective groups, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to do them back to you.
I’m not sure what your name is, what you do for work, or how you take your coffee the morning after closing down the bars, but GITB, I think about you from time to time and it always makes me smile. It’s really unfortunate that we were both so wasted that the phone number you wrote down in your contact has an extra six digits in it. But maybe, just maybe, if we’re lucky we’ll end up in the same place on a trivia night. It’ll be like the scene in a movie: I’ll look across the room filled with people yelling ’90s TV show names at each other, “Collide” will start playing softly, and there you’ll be.
Basically GITB, you rule. Let’s be best friends not just in the bathroom, but in real life, too.
The Girl You Met In The Bar Bathroom.