Girls have always traveled in packs. From middle school cliques to sorority sisters, girls tend to favor the camaraderie and constant companionship of a group. And while it seems that all girls share this affinity to some degree (yes, even me. I was a sucker for the sleepover party) some girls are more prone to pack-mentality than others. It is these women that gather their comrades apres-office, trade shoes and lip-gloss, text their coordinates and meet for the commence of: The Manhunt.

I first noticed this phenomenon while working at a Tapas restaurant in Lincoln park, where these Manhunts occurred without fail every Saturday night at 8 o’clock sharp. There was always a calm before the storm, preempted by a slow trickle of family diners and lovers of the early bird special. Then, it would hit. The revolving doors would begin to whir, menus would swoosh to the floor as the frazzled hostess would cower in anticipation of the approaching onslaught.

Trixies. Dames. Broads. Whatever you want to call them. They would pour in by the tens, hundreds! The sparkly tops, the shiny cheekbones, the fragrance cocktail strong enough to floor an Avon lady. And the high, high frequencies. Enough to send the dogs running.

Apparently, the main purpose for an outing of this caliber revolves around the scoring of a dude. A few single gals and their committed/engaged/married friend form a team with the goal to get each other (minus the boring married one) hooked-up with their Prince Charming by the end of the night. There are unspoken rules (thou shalt not covet the guy I saw first) well-worn rituals (the communal bathroom trip) and secret codes (if I blink twice, twirl once and sign the first three clauses of the Magna Carta, it means SAVE ME) so ingrained in this mating ritual they could make a Discovery Channel special. But after all this effort, does it work?

 One friend of mine likens the manhunt to another girly pastime, shopping. “If you're broke, feeling fat and not in the mood to buy anything, you find the perfect sweater and pine away about it for days. But if you're feeling hot and ready to spend, you won't find a thing”. During my time at the restaurant, I’d witness both possible outcomes of the manhunt.

Occasionally, a table of well-dressed gents would spot the predators, mistake them for prey, and simultaneously go in for the kill. Sangria would start to flow and a few lucky women would meet their match. But more often than not, I’d witness the gin-soaked honeys make their way over to the attractive bartender, gloss long gone but the glint remaining in their eye. He would play innocent while subtly cutting them off, and yet another caravan of drunk singletons would submit themselves to the night, perhaps retreating to the 4am bar down the street for a final go. Now I don’t mean to be so down on chicks, here.

And I completely support ones' motivation to go out and get the guy. But it’s the lack of discretion that makes me wary. What happened to that air of mystery? That lone girl at the end of the bar, cigarette lopsidedly hung between her fingers, eyelids heavy with ennui? That’s the one that Cary Grant always sauntered up to. But perhaps those days are long gone, and guys today welcome a more blatant display.

After all, we are adapting to a culture of instant gratification thanks to the iSight and the pizza delivery phenomenon. So go ahead, guys! Spot a group of done up, made up, strung out chicks? Dive right in! Too overwhelming? Fine. I believe pack mentality allows you to pounce on the one that strayed to the DJ booth to request “Toxic”. So set your traps, ladies. And review your emergency exits, gentlemen. The manhunt rages on.

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