Your outfit is determined not by fashion but by what was clean.
You consider your inch-and-a-half heels "high" and, although you will never cop to it, you find them difficult to walk in.
On your way out the door, you notice and remove from your purse a weeks-old string cheese and two Gerber baby spoons.
You "apply" your makeup in the car. Which means you dig out the dregs of the lipgloss you keep forgetting to replace with the stick of the lollipop you keep in your makeup case for bribery.
At the bar, you blank out when the bartender asks, "what'll you have?" it's been so long since you ordered a drink.
There is absolutely no chance of running into somebody you know.
You keep smelling baby poo, even though this is technically impossible.
While you were getting wasted in college, the rest of the room was in the hospital getting born. This includes the band.
The glass your second drink is served in (in your own defense, the drinks are vodka martinis) through no fault of your own (mm-hmm) is returned to the bar in three pieces.
(E's interjection: When retrieving said glass pieces from the floor, your immediate and only thought is that "kids could get hurt." Then you realize everyone's over 21 and wearing shoes.)
You are relieved when nobody offers you a third drink.
You are yawning and clock-checking before the headliner even hits the stage.