It was 12:30 on Saturday night and I was at this live-music spot in the East Village.  I was two Jack and Diets and a shot of tequila deep, still feeling a residual high from some weed I had smoked earlier in the night.

I sat at the bar with two old chaps from yester year, Ray and Charlie, shooting the shit while taking in the unmistakable fragrance of my Italian leather jacket.  Another old friend joined the group, Rob, and pointed to The Birthday Girl.  She was a cute brunette sporting a nice bob and rocking a silver –shiny tiara.  I had noticed her earlier in the night traipsing through the crowd, glimmering with her obvious celebratory statement.

Rob said “Man, I feel like such a dick.  I went to talk to The Birthday Girl and asked how old she was.  When she told me 30, I told her she didn’t look a day over 29.”

Rob was pretty torn up about it.  His intention was not to be an asshole.I just continued with my stoned smile, slightly embarrassed with how lame that line was rather than his “supposed” malicious and self indulgent interpretation.

The Birthday Girl drifted toward us.  She was solo, doughy-eyed and aimlessly wandering amongst the mixed crowd.

“Hey Birthday Girl!  Come Here!” Ray and Charlie yelled.

She floated over to the bar and said with a big smile, “Hey, were you calling me?”

Ray asked, while turning her toward Rob, the infidel, “Hey, have you met my friend?”

Without hesitation, The Birthday Girl reached out her hand and said, “Hi, I don’t think we met.”

It was classic!  All of that built up anguish and self loathing, wasted on the highly intoxicated Birthday Girl with little to no recollection of the night.  My stoned grin suddenly turned into an open-mouthed cackle.

The Birthday Girl exited the scene and Rob asked me, “Hey, I wonder if she is wearing underwear?”

Naturally, the conversation went straight to underwear.  I love how men think.  Of course I had to play devil’s advocate and suggest otherwise.

“She is wearing black thongs made of lace material,” I said.

“Do you think she has rhinestones on it?” asked Charlie.

Clearly someone was inspired by the star-studded tiara. I rejected Charlie’s hypothesis with confidence as if I was the authority on women’s underwear.

Then, all three of their pre-ejaculatory wheels started spinning. First they wondered how I knew for sure The Birthday Girl was wearing a black lace thong.  That thought slowly turned into curiosity about my sexuality.  Was I into girls?  Ending with my favorite thought, as to whether or not I myself was wearing any underwear.

Ha, like I said, I love how men think.

We went back and forth nominating who was going to ask her about her underwear until I decided to go outside to smoke a cigarette. It was freezing. The wind blew the mineral powder off my face.  As I stood by the doorway, I noticed The Birthday Girl, ready to make her departure.  I watched The Birthday Girl leave the bar, stoic and unaccompanied.

I considered asking her if she was wearing underwear, but the only thing I wanted to know was why she was alone in a bar on her 30th Birthday wearing a tiara.