I’m going to let you in on a little secret:
I hate girl’s nights.
Now please don’t misunderstand, I love my girls. Not to brag, but I have some of the best lady friends in the world. We’re talking take you in when you have nowhere to live, drive all the way down to Fort Lauderdale twice in one night to rescue your sick self, lend you money when you’re too poor to buy lunch, good friends. And these girls I will hang out with any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
The idea of hanging out with random girls I don’t know well, and making polite conversation and pretending to listen and being polite and ladylike and not so sarcastic that you offend half the group? That’s terrifying. And hard. Have you met me? I speak fluent sarcasm, and more than once it’s been misinterpreted. And I seem awful. Being a girl is hard.
But this wasn’t one of those hard nights. This was me and three friends cracking open a few bottles of red and baking cookies. This was close friends sitting on counter-tops and making inappropriate jokes.
Whatevs, you know you do it. I love these girls. And I highly suggest a relaxed, wine-infused girls’ night. It’s good for the soul.