Two Cougars Walk into a Bar

On Friday night, my friend Linda and I were sitting at a bar, yelling over the loud music when a girl came up behind us and started yelling — also trying to be heard over the music — to her very drunk friend whose hand she was holding. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to take care of you. I just want to get you some water.” We looked over at her friend, who was glassy-eyed, leaning into her friend and slurring, “I just want a cigarette. I’ll be okay. Let me get a cigarette.”

“I really hope she doesn’t puke on us,” I said to Linda as we looked the poor girl up and down, assessing. “Oh, god, she doesn’t look so good,” Linda said. The girls caught us staring, and moved farther down the bar, realizing that we were, of course, judging. It was probably 10pm.

Two glasses of wine later, the bartender came over and asked if I needed another. At that moment, we heard a crash, and saw the glassy-eyed girl plow into some chairs and grab the wall. “Um, not yet. I don’t want to end up like that girl,” I said.

Two more drinks later, I got up to use the bathroom. I slammed the bathroom door shut on my finger. I went back to our seats and lamented to Linda how drunk I felt. Then poor Linda was on the floor. Her barstool had tipped over, and there she was staring up at me dazed. A few of us pulled her up and we decided it was time to call it a night. Then Linda dropped her purse, and everything in it scattered across the floor. One girl bent down to help her while everyone around us was laughing. So much for not ending up like That Girl.

I woke up the next morning to a throbbing and blackened finger — bruised all the way around, blood pooled under the nail. I was about to say to my boyfriend, “Thank God I was drunk when it happened so I didn’t register the pain.” But then I realized it probably wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been drunk in the first place. And it’s only taken me 34 years to glean this pearl of wisdom. Hopefully That Girl will figure it out sooner.