It seemed like so long ago I was last at the bar, though I guess as an urban twentysomething, a month is a long time to go without the ritual imbibing and mating dances.

It was S’s birthday, and we all sat around her kitchen table snacking on Mexican food and surrounded with the tools of our trade—mirrors, liners, brushes, mascaras. Our shirts were low, our jeans were tight, and our hair was at optimum volume. Some of us are still into pre-drinking, which any twentysomething knows is the way to paint the town red on the cheap. It’s a couple glasses of a stinging drink (or a smooth one if you’re as seasoned as I) before dancing into the place you’ll pay three times what they’re worth. We got in the Mitz and were off.

I remember climbing onto a riser when “Like Glue” came on, and getting “props” from some blond when I came down with the help of my friends’ hands. I remember sitting on a couch laughing and looking down at the cell to see if fiancé had called. We moved to an Irish pub and I remember doing cartwheels in its kitchen after closing, and laughing as I tapped guys and pointed at my friend with an innocent look. (Though, to be honest, what was intended to be an innocent look could have looked quite different in a drunk reality), Birthday girl had her fair share of weird named drinks and drop shots, and looked great even at the end of the night—quite a feat! Best friend A puked a bit and J was lost when I looked up at closing. Band drummer loved me but I had to bat my eyelashes and pass him off to another girl he would not doubt think was also “super hot.”

We slept soundly but shortly and had a deliciously greasy brunch. And that’s the way I love to do the bar.