(*Image sourced from and credited to https://www.someecards.com*)
RE: Girly nights in.
All too often, when I tell a man that I'm having a 'girly night in', whether a friend, a romantic interest, or even just a colleague I'm making small talk with, I can't help but notice the subtle cognitive ignition of devilish expectation. Yup, those 3 insignificant words seem to conjure up an entire world of foolish misconception. Is it not about time that you were cruelly welcomed to the reality of what happens when us ladyfolk dedicate an entire evening to the celebration of our mutual vaginaship? Yes, it is. You're welcome.
Contrary to concupiscent fantasy, girly nights in are not erotic events. Sorry. There's no skimpy lingerie, no flirtatious pillow fights, and absolutely no sudden realisation that we are in fact ravenous lesbians who conveniently fancy all of our best friends. There's no ripping of each other's minimal clothing, no enthusiastic snogging, and no raunchy 'spin the bottle'. At all. Ever.
Whilst you're optimistically fantasising about a photo opportunity for the Ann Summers catalogue, or the opening scenes to a dodgy amateur movie, we've actually rocked up looking entirely shit. And by shit, I also mean ridiculous. Toss those thoughts of provocative undercrackers aside; we're probably all wearing onesies or snowman patterned pyjamas or old, comfy tees that are at least four years old and playing host to last Autumn's onion gravy. And we haven't brushed our hair. Or washed it. Our eyebrows are dishevelled. Our make up is smudged. Our calf hair is so long you could knit a jumper out of it. Is anybody else feeling the warming crest of arousal? Still want us to send you a 'cheeky snap'? (You do? Get help. Go. Go now. Talk to Frank or something.)
We may have told you that we were going to detox, and we did have genuine intention of doing so, I promise. We planned to take a gentle meander through the aisles of an upmarket food store and stock up on face packs, marinated salmon, expensive salad and green smoothies. As it turns out, we took one step into that food store and turned into overexcited woman-beasts with an insatiable desire to line our stomachs with all of the saturated fat and sugar that we could get our hands on. We actually ended up buying an entire caseload of wine, six greasy pizzas, garlic bread, chips, a massive chocolate cake, and of course a barrel of ice cream to dip it in. Girly nights in make us insanely hungry, hangry in fact. If we're not eating for the duration of the evening, something is very wrong indeed. Would you like us to bring you back a slice of pizza? You would? Oh, you delirious soul.
We crack open the wine, which usually corresponds with the start of a a film in which stars an actor whom we would all happily ravish; a film that we will have no recollection of come dawn, a film that will be watched for no longer than the opening scene before one of us makes a hideous, animalistic mind thrust towards said actor and the conversational tidal wave begins. We tend to start off with a few pointless toasts just because we like how sophisticated the sound of clinking glasses makes us feel. 'Ohhhhh Hannah, you fell down the stairs and only broke one of your toes? That is AH-MAY-ZING, cheers gals!!'
We always tell you that we're not talking about you, but that's a firm fabrication of the truth. Have you ever actually believed that? (You haven't? Right?) Of course we're talking about you! Even if we presented you with the jolly 'nooooo, don't be silly, all I bring to the conversation are book reviews and thrilling political debate' cabaret, we're definitely talking about you. If you have caught our fancy, taken us on a date, confused us, aggravated us, or tried to sleep with us within the recent past, be certain that you are undergoing some animated group analysis at the hormonal house party; terrible, heavily exaggerated impressions and all. (If you are Irish, we have a particular knack of making you sound Indian.) We are trying to work out why you're so bloody cryptic, we are swapping dating stories, and we are occasionally taking a group vote to determine whether or not you'd be a hit with our nan/whether your naked body could cheer us up during a nuclear war. We also talk about your genitals, sometimes. Sorry.
As for us getting naked, I'd be lying if I said we went the entire evening without the revealing of any flesh, but if we are taking our clothes off, it's only to show each other our eternally advancing love handles, to admire our impressive food babies, or to remove an irritating pizza crust crumb that's somehow ended up wedged within our cleavage on the inside of our onesie. One cannot even begin to describe the intense degree of irritation that a stray, spiky crumb can bring to an undeserving breast. I know, that warm crest of arousal is back, isn't it? Who wants to go on a date with me?
By the end of the evening, a satisfied silence has descended upon us; a silence that indicates that we are at least twice as drunk as we anticipated we were going to get tonight, and definitely in no fit state to talk to you. Or acknowledge you. It's not you, it's me. Or is it me? Who am I?
I hope you are now as aroused as I wasn't whilst writing this spoiler. I'm off to make a jumper out of my calf hair.