Declaration of Codependence

We’ve come a long way this century as women. We’ve earned the right to wear pants, fight in the army, vote, drive cars and shatter the glass ceiling (though lets be honest about that last one kids, we’d rather just marry it). But there is one atrocious inequality that faces us still: one that makes my palms sweat and my chest heave and my blood boil:

Clubbing discrimination against the All Girl Table.

No, any group of girls that deign to achieve this holy grail of club night is labeled Pompous, Lesbian- or a combination of both. (Which really shouldn’t be surprising given these are the only 2 insults in the diverse male arsenal but I digress).

Men, those darling beings, do not have this problem. The all male table, while beefier than Chelsea market on a Saturday afternoon, can easily be compensated for with the following actions (which may be practiced singularly or in tandem):

a) Troll the bar for desperate stand-ins
b) Pass girls flutes as they walk by- a flute of champagne requiring at the least a brief conversation and at most a trip to Pop Burger with you at 4 am
c) Text your girl-friends last minute, offering them excessive amounts of alcohol. If you build it, they will come…
d) Brush it off as Guy’s Night
e) Keep asking the waitress to pour new cocktails so it appears that she is, in fact, part of the table

We girls, on the other hand, don’t get tables at clubs for the sole purpose of getting laid. In fact, this is actually adverse to the REAL point. We do so because a certain subset of us can- when we’re signing the abnormally bloated tab at the end we get a faint whiff of what it feels like to have balls.

But perhaps most importantly, girls’ night out gives us an excuse to don our most fabulous outfits, the conceptual nature of which only our fellow neurotic style obsessed women can appreciate. Somehow, when free of the shackles of ass-grabbing and general bad behavior- we feel free to don our shortest skirts, plunging necklines, and 5 inch Louboutins. In short, the appeal is thus: Girls club night both heightens our delusions of grandeur while allowing us to slut it up, while not really slutting it up at all (clearly our favourite tease).

The execution however, is where the deviation and subsequent tragedy lies. We are met with inquisitive stares and a general uneasiness the effects of which 3 bottles of Grey Goose cannot diminish (trust me, I’ve tried). The last time we got a table, even the whore (waitress, sorry) tried to pin us with some cheap fucking Stoli. Nonetheless, we were having a terrific time, until one gentleman who had been unsuccessfully eyeing us up strode over to our table and in his best slur said what all the guys around us were thinking

“You think a-yourrrr all fucking SUPERmodels don’t you??”

“Um, no, but I can understand why you think so,” my friend responded in kind.

“Well guess what??” he spat, “Your NOT!!”

Our little Zoolander in training had a point: our ability to purchase our own alcohol emasculated him just like supermodels emasculated him. Ipso facto, we obviously thought we were supermodels. (This guy clearly got an A in Principles of Logic at Georgetown- oh wait, that was me). The fallacy of such an argument would have been a waste to point out to someone whose nostrils had hoovered more cocaine in the last hour than during all of Fashion week summarily.

This past Saturday, insult was added to injury. The same group of friends booked another table at another ridiculously hyped new club. This time, the men were more incredulous than insulting. “Whoa, how often do you see five hot chicks that are into other chicks? It’s fucking unbelievable!” they gleefully yelled over the din of recycled Bob Sinclair. Were these guys for serious?!

Needless to say, my friend hasn’t given up feeling insulted about this, days later. “I mean dude,” she implored “we even had 2 guys at the table! Given they were sort of scrawny and gay looking but fucking A!”

“Geez,” I consoled her, “now I know how the guys feel when someone brings a fat chick on the table. I mean she doesn’t add anything, but MY can she detract…am I right?”

As always, I was right.

And as always, more fodder for our next chill session was amassed, but something bigger was at hand and we both knew it. Short of launching the Million Clubber March, and short of forcing all males to complete computer based training on verbally assaulting girls whose pants they could never get into, something had to be done.

So here it is: my declaration. Gents, you were obviously right. It is entirely pompous and overwhelmingly lesbian of us to pay for our own grossly overpriced alcohol. I cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye that I will never, ever reach for my gold card again. This I- nay- all women, do solemnly swear.

I hope that was as good for you as it was for me.