The legacy of a wingwoman
June 12, 2011
Finding a good friend is like finding a four-leaf clover: It rarely ever happens, but when it does you never forget it. The first time I met Amy* we didn’t quite hit it off. It always seems to happen that way. I thought she was an intimidating, mean girl who was all talk, and she probably thought I was the most boring person alive. She always tells me I don’t show enough emotion, mostly because I don’t shower her with affectionate hugs and kisses every time I see her.
I guess I play hard to get.
The first time we went out together, she got so wasted she passed out and peed herself before the party even started. I was going to introduce her to my boyfriend that night, had she been conscious. He was not impressed. However, her tolerance for alcohol has improved significantly since that incident. Keep in mind that she is 5 feet tall and less than 110 pounds. She can’t quite keep up with the big kids.
One summer night we bonded over a bottle of Patrón — pretty much the entire bottle. It was like our first date. A typical date starts with drinks, then dinner and then maybe something fun. After more than enough tequila, we couldn’t decide where to eat so we skipped dinner entirely. This is a common occurrence. We’re so indecisive when it comes to food, no one can stand us. We knew we’d be good friends from that moment on.
Amy is a year older than me and naturally takes on the role of the nurturer, making sure I take my vitamins and drink my juice. Luckily we share the same size clothes, so I often leave it up to her to dress me. She also cooks, which is a great perk. She always has an answer to everything, thanks to Google. And she is the only friend who will tell me when I look bad or when I’m being a psycho bitch, unlike everyone else who says, “He’s just being an asshole. You’re too good for him,” or “Don’t worry you look so hot” when my shoes don’t even match. These things matter.
When it comes to being my wingwoman, Amy takes the cake. We even have matching scars to show for it. Somehow we have never been able to leave Stingaree unscathed. One night we were waiting in the VIP section to go backstage with LMFAO. It was
10 p.m. I felt ugly, tired and definitely way too sober.
Suddenly a bald, burly man grabbed my hand and said, “You’re too pretty to be looking so sad.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. I tried to flee, but his hand was three times the size of mine and he had the grip of an ogre.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he said. “What do you like?”
“Patrón,” I said.
He led me to the bar, still gripping my hand, and ordered three shots of Patrón. He had a massive clip of $100 bills. I wondered why he ordered three when there were only two of us. Then the shots came and he lined them up neatly in front of me.
“Here you go,” he said. I took one of the shots and he looked on expectantly.
“They’re all for you, sweetie,” he said. Oh, great. I couldn’t look like a little girl so I took them all and tried to make a beeline for Amy, but she got to me first.
“What the hell are you doing?” she yelled. “We’re supposed to be backstage by now!”
The bald man ordered three more shots of Patrón. This time we each had one. By now it was too late to get backstage.
“Do you party?” he asked us. We were too naïve at this time to understand.
“We are partying,” we both said. He just shook his head and proceeded to “party” off of his hand in front of the bartender.
He then took us to every bar in the club and ordered shots after shots after shots. Just because I have a boyfriend didn’t mean Amy couldn’t enjoy some free drinks. After all, she was missing LMFAO. Eventually the bald man started getting attached, and we started looking like his cheap escorts. So Amy initiated the perfect exit plan, which we executed with ease.
Maybe all those shots weren’t such a good idea, hence our matching scars. Each of us has an ugly and deformed scar on our right knee which still has not healed, a year later. She got hers when her heel broke and she fell, leaving the club. I got mine later that night falling off of someone’s lawn onto the sidewalk. Don’t ask.
It turned out the bald man was a business executive from New York who had all the hookups to every club in San Diego, Los Angeles and New York. Dang it.
Amy’s now moving away and I’ll need a new wingwoman. But we’re never too far apart. When there’s Patrón, we’ll always find our way back to each other.
-Tanya Huang is a journalism senior, looking for a new roommate /wingwoman.
-This column does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Daily Aztec.
* Name changed