I have… amazing friends.  I feel that I’m blessed more than the average human female for being able to tell those that come in my door, or leave that the words, “I love you,” don’t only resonate of my mouth, but of my heart; none of which was more apparent than last night.

We stepped out into the frigid downtown air and started our stiletto walk to the bars after circling the block 3 times and finally happened upon The Refuge, (a favorite shindig of mine,) and engrossed ourselves in $4 long islands and discussed the complexities of life as independent women, and we made a pact right there that if the typical, drunkard man decided to zone in on our girl-time, we’d pull an Oklahoma and bail each other out.

I can guarantee you, Downtown Minneapolis never had so many screaming that fine city’s name as it did last night.

Andrea said it well in her twitter: “Hey ladies, if its your bachelorette party, and you’re wasted, grinding on guys, maybe you should be rethinking your future commitments.” We all wholeheartedly agreed.We all figured out the painful truth of the aged 21-25 , male, bracket. Dry Humping? Apparently means, “I love you,” in frat boy. And we were disgusted.

We watched the cougars, (some seriously unhappy 40-somethings grinding on a stripper pole,) to the fine music of Nelly and BelBivDevo. They looked lost in their determination to look as intoxicated and ridiculous as possible, and the men standing underneath them were not shameful, but overjoyed. I looked over to Andrea and we talked of the silent desperation to find lost youth, or beauty- or whatever they felt they were missing that attention could bring. I looked around the crowded bar and as we danced and swatted people away- we giggled at the joy of what dancing alone can bring.

It was a large mating ritual and Kristen, Carla and Andrea nodded to my, “Why would you just want to be another girl one of these geriatric,  frat boys, takes home?”  That’s what was happening: We were all there to relive something. Some men wanted college again, and some women wanted to be wanted. I closed my eyes and felt the feeling of my sleeves against my wrist, my boots against the wooden floor and my heart beating out of my chest to the dense bass of the music.

A guy with greying black hair pulled my arm and said, “Your smile glows.” It’s hard to pinpoint why- but the sincerity of his words made me feel understood- that in perhaps a room full of overzealous, aged-teenagers, he knew that the inside, beat out the outside. He never tried to dance with me, though he high-fived me on his way out. That was the difference.

They came in droves, those unable to stand or those who danced like radiant, retarded, beasts- hopped on on Prozac and egotism- and we screamed, “OKLAHOMA!” Grabbed each others hands and moved about four feet away. I’m not even sure why that word was chosen, but the other suggestions didn’t seem nearly as serious or refined.”BananaPants!” or, “ATLANTA!” didn’t have the same rings to them.

Oklahoma for life, ladies.