Nic Narrates

My college friends, my three-years-younger-than-me college friends, Mara and Ali, came to visit this past weekend and, as they went sans bra into the night, I dubbed myself “Mom” and gave them some ground rules in the cab on the way to “The Happiest Place On Earth” (skirt the fire hazard atmosphere and it’s like Christmas and a kickass wedding reception all in one).

Mom: “Okay, so tonight, I will not participate in any false nomenclature not limited to but including Julie, Kandy, Melanie, or Suzette. In exchange, I promise not to try to pull off Cha-Cha or Ginger, as much as I enjoy a challenge. Hey, are you listening to me? I’m serious.”

Mara: “Can I borrow your lip gloss?”

Mom: “Also, there will be no random make out sessions with some strange while jacking up on him. You both have live-in boyfriends and I will not be held responsible for ‘outing’ you.”

Ali: “Yeah, that was soooooo not cool, Nic. I mean, Mom.”

Mom: “There will be no offering up of my phone number or address, nor my services to entertain your strange’s wingman (unless you plan on introducing me as “Cockblocker”). And finally, my shirt is not something to be tugged on, lifted up, or pulled downward. That one’s for you, Mara.”

Mara: “Heeeeeyyyy-I can’t believe you would, like, say that! Like I’ve ever tried to expose your breasticles!”

Cut to the cabbie whipping around to get a good look. He turned back around quite disappointed, I might add.

Ali: “Ummm, yeah you did! Remember last time?”

Mara: “No. Wait, sort of? Was that before or after I was on the bar?”

Ali: “It was after you fell off.”

Two hours later, we’re a bunch of dumbasses, throwing elbows to clear a space on the dance floor, giggling about my pinkie toe slipping out of my blue patent leather T-strap heels (both gross and funny at the same time, especially when you’re drinking. No?), and building up Ali’s assertiveness by making her cut through the crowds and talk to the bartender.

And then, it’s just Ali and I as Mara goes off to “play a game” as she puts it. She’s decided it is now her sole purpose in life to prove she still has “it” and can “get with” any guy (including three or four of them who will subsequently turn on her around 3 am and bring her to ironic tears). Yeah, I love her, but she’s THAT girl.

At that point, “Mom” decides she’s feeling more like 35 than 26. As much as I want to sing “To the left, to the left” or “Last night…I couldn’t even get an answer” on the top floor with the 22 year old kids wearing glitter and sequins and the suburban bachelorettes with penises dangling from their necks, I think I’ll hang out in the basement and dance to Rick Springfield, Bon Jovi, and Prince. These are my people. I got people.

So maybe I have outgrown this scene, but I can still knock back some gin and tonica, get my dance on, and crawl into bed when the birds start to sing. And now, I’ve got better footwear and don’t need some random to give me the confidence of knowing I have “it.”

Filed under: friends, poor choices, public transportation, singletons by Nic