Boy, am I an old maid. Long gone are the days when I used to bar-hop from the West Village to the East Village with my forever New York Girl and our dimpled chauffeur from Brooklyn. We'd stay out until 4 am, sometimes 5, but never made it home before 3 am, she the ever effortless social butterfly, and me sampling the girly shots at the bar, what with a designated driver and all. On those nights, our goal is to always dance freely, get a few of the fellas' numbers, and leave just as classily as we arrived.

This past Saturday night, I put on my signature black leather bomber and finally made it out to an East Village bar for one of my closest gal pal's "I'm moving to L.A." fete. The scene was hip and the air electric, I'm walking amidst happening divas hitting it up with the downtown boys to find my friend for a hug, a special ruby-concocted drink and a begrudging kiss farewell. It was easy, she was the only one wearing a tiara. After a few "hey babys" and some unnecessary, unaccidental nuzzling, I left the scene and walked out into the crisp spring air, capped by a planet-speckled night sky, exhaled loudly and thought, yes..I'm too old for this crowd. I hopped into a taxi and thought about what was waiting for me back at my UpperWestSide apartment: a warm bed...and a warm guy.