Charming, but single

Legen – wait for it! – daaaary March 27, 2007

Apparently after a certain point on Saturday night, I began texting and calling everyone I know to relay very important information, typically involving people I’d seen or, more than likely, to sing that song they just played at the bar that we used to listen to back in the day and OH-MY-GOD I miss you so much, wasn’t being 22 just so much fun, why do we have to have cubicle jobs and student loan bills, and DAMN remember how much fun our group would have the first weekend each semester when student loans came in and we’d party like we would never have money again all semester, which we wouldn’t because we wasted it all on bottom-shelf Vodka and cranberry juice, and why can’t we be kids again and Answer! The! Phone! I don’t care if you do live on the East coast and it is 4 a.m. there, tell your husband to roll over and go back to sleep and talk to me about that time we made Jello shots for three hours and stained the kitchen counters red.

Is what I imagine the many voicemails I left must’ve sounded like.

As old as you feel March 25, 2007

Most of my nights out lately have ended with me in bed before midnight – I’ve not made it to closing time of a watering hole in quite a little while. I don’t think this is necessarily negative, but given that my early to mid 20s are a collage of all-night bar hopping followed by greasy diner food or informal late night parties, it surprises me when I find myself yawning at 10:30 nowadays. With The Lawyer in town for the weekend and plans for Southern Belle to join us sushi at a trendy place downtown, this seemed like quite the occasion to see if a party girl remained hidden inside my reluctant-to-accept-adulthood self.

We grumbled when the terrace of the restaurant was closed for a pricey fundraiser, which meant we had to take our pre-dinner cosmos in the very crowded bar and waiting area. When we were seated at our table and selecting wines, The Lawyer decided to order a pricey bottle of champagne for the table to celebrate the fact that the three of us were hanging out for the first time in at least eight or nine months.

These situations are awkward for me. Both of my dining companions were lawyers who make much more money than I make. And though The Lawyer made it clear that this was her treat and that we were neither expected nor permitted to pay for the champagne, it exposed the financial imbalance between us. Don’t get me wrong, I’m doing fine, making enough money to take care of me. And my many lawyer friends went to school and racked up much debt for their law degrees. We all make our own career choices. And right now I am not the person who can afford those luxuries, nor am I person who expects her better off friends to provide them. I appreciate her generosity, but I would have spent this weekend drinking beers and watching DVDs if that’s what The Lawyer and Southern Belle wanted to do.

We toasted to our friendship and shared some edamame and some sushi rolls. And while we thought about which rolls to order for a second round, we also decided that a cigarette was probably in order. Feeling mildly mischievous from the combo of cosmos and champagne, we theorized about ways to slyly sneak out on the terrace without alerting the staff of the busy restaurant. We’d hardly be unnoticed – three drunk girls in jeans and sexy tops smoking amidst a sea of waiters with plates of cheesecake and couples in cocktail attire. We’d stand out.

We asked our server if we could discreetly smoke in an area away from the now-ending party and she politely declined, as we knew she would. But before she walked off the order our final two sushi rolls, she agreed to see what she could do for us. And three minutes later a manager was at our table offering to sneak us outside. As she led us through the kitchen and to the side exit out on the end of the terrace, unseen by the other patrons and party guests, I heard kitchen staff say, “They are high rollers.”

This seemed so very odd to me and was slightly overwhelming. I didn’t need to smoke. I’d been fine to wait until after our meal and I certainly hadn’t meant to inconvenience anyone. And I didn’t feel at all like a big spender, though it was clear that the pricey champagne was enough to earn our table the moniker for the night. There I was, the girl who’d budgeted all week to go eat a fancy dinner with her friends, an Accidental High Roller on Saturday night.

After dinner we walked two blocks to our favorite wine bar, which was packed. We sat on a couch and were immediately chided and made to move by the bar’s often overbearing manager, who insisted that we were taking a reserved table. Humbled, we joked about how quick the tables turn from one venue to the next and took over a spot with a few low stools in a high traffic area in front of a group of rambunctious partiers, aged around 22 to 40. Prom Date joined us and then a childhood acquaintance of his stopped by our table on his way to join the group of loud partiers. He’s opening a new bar, so we discussed the trade for a bit. After about 10 minutes of conversation we learned that he knew an ex-boyfriend of The Lawyer and that we’d hung out with his cousin in college.

At this point, everyone was feeling the effects of several hours of cocktails and wine (and yes, we had a designated driver in Southern Belle’s boyfriend, who picked us up later), and we were carrying on while keeping a watchful eye on the group nearby, where women were dancing on the low tables as if they’d never been to a bar before.

The next thing I know, half of their group has left and our groups have merged and I’m doing shots and then we’re all moving upstairs to a VIP table. Another case of the Accidental High Roller – I spent most of the night wondering how we’d hooked up with a group of people who ordered only full bottle after bottle of wine, who seemed unfazed at the $40 to $50 price tag on each bottle. How we’d gone from being forced to move from reserved seats to lounging in our private perch above the bar. Truth be told, I had fun, but was slightly uncomfortable with all of the fuss. Five years ago, I might have been overly impressed.

And then everything is a blur and the bar is closing and I am paying my tab and expecting to be kicked out so the staff can leave. But as the rest of the patrons leave, the cocktail waitresses set two more bottles of red on our table and bring ashtrays to us – this is a smoke-free bar – for the men to smoke cigars. I have stopped drinking anything but water and I’m so ridiculously tired that all I want to do is sleep on the low black couches in the dim light while the music pounds around me. I am determined to prove to myself that I can still do it up right.

And when I finally do get home and my head hits the pillow, it is 4:30 in the morning.

Mission accomplished.