I’ve always been something of a “guy’s girl.” You know, the kind of chick that can hang with the boys, whether it involve throwing a tight spiral in a game of touch football or playing wingman at the corner bar. To this day, I suspect that I am allergic to dresses and can tell raunchy stories with the best of them. I’ve been to a few bachelor parties in my time and was even best man for my dad when he got remarried. Yes, I wore a tux. No, I had no part in planning HIS bachelor party activities and have no confirmation on the strippers that may or may not have made an appearance. That would just be gross and I simply do not want to know.

I’ve always taken pride in my ability to handle the men-folk, but it does come with its’ own brand of heartbreak. Namely, the quiet scream of a love-bruising often referred to as “The Friend Zone.” In my case, The Friend Zone went down like this: I would find myself crushing on one of the guys in my circle of friends and I wanted to be there for him. So I played supportive and listened to his adventures in dating. I counseled. I questioned. I consoled. I wanted to be the one to dry his tears when his latest relationship inevitably went awry. I wanted him to turn to me, lightning bolts a-flashing in his eyes, as he thought to himself, “Why have I been wasting my time with these floozies, when Lauren has been here all along? She’s so kind! So supportive! So hot! I must have her!”