Things change as you get older. This was so very clear to me in a course of events over the weekend in which my care-free twenties seemed light years away. Let me set the stage...
In my twenties I was not a party-girl. I went to the state's top party school and I can count the number of events that would register as a "party" on one hand with fingers left over. I'm okay with that, it was a choice. There are times when I wish anxiety had let me cut loose a little more, but more often than not, I'm just okay with what it was. That said, the few nights out that I hold in memory started with looking through my closet for the just right outfit, a decent amount of time in personal grooming and asset-maximizing, loud music to set the tone before we left and at least one drink before we left so that we ready for what was to come. Prep time? Likely several hours. The location we headed to was dark, preferably loud, close and filled and to capacity. We left when the time started with a single digit followed by an a.m. We slept in until we were good and ready to get up.
Flash forward to my present reality. The last time I went out with some of the girls predates my oldest child's birth. In some cases I been out for a delightful and decorous birthday lunch with some of these ladies within the year, but not within the fiscal year. Prepping for this event was somewhat different. I looked in my closet for something that was clean and comfortable. I made sure it matched and that was the extent of fashion consultation. If any assets were maximized it was purely accidental. I didn't shower between work and girl's night, or at least not intentionally, however Little Middle may have sprayed me with sink sprayer when she was trying to get a glass of water. My make-up and grooming chalked up to washing the pink spray out of my hair from the school spirit event and washing away the Tammy Faye mascara streaks that twelve hours of parenting and public school will provide me every time. I didn't moisturize because I was reasonably sure no one was going to get nimbly-bimbly enough to feel my legs in their current alligator hide state. Good to go.
I took their dinner out of the crockpot to make sure the kids were fed before LOADING THEM UP IN THE CAR to go with me. Fear not...not to the bar, but to meet their father who was going to swap cars and bring them back home. Before we left, I emptied the dishwasher and loaded the washing machine one more time to cut down on the amount of laundry waiting on Saturday. (HOT right?)
On the way to the rendezvous spot, we listened to KidsPlace Live on Sirius. I can sing you all the words to "What Makes the Breakfast? by Mike Phirman if you need it. And yes, the volume was all the way up so it was kinda like being twenty in a way. I waited in a gas station parking lot for Mr. Unscripted as we debated by phone the fun-risk analysis of being out as the weather turned from cold to rainy and possibly icy. The whole thing started to feel less footloose and fancy-free and more Married with Children.
I finally got to my destination as the last to arrive. The good part being that with my low alcohol tolerance, it wouldn't take me long to catch up or nor reach my limit, so being an hour late almost works in my favor. I got the "Cheers" worthy greeting from my ladies and the evening was off and running.
Like the old days, sex was in the air. Unlike the old days we were talking about the sexuality of our waiter and how to explain radio commercials for venereal disease to our children. Like the old days, the band was loud. Unlike the old days, I couldn't hear a thing and it made me cranky and I was glad when they stopped. Like the old days, we were people-watching, but unlike the old days, we were largely grateful that non of the men offered to buy us drinks, nor asked us to dance. The options were really that sparse. Like the old days, we ordered food. Unlike the old days, we actually ate it. It wasn't boy lure, nor prop, and damn it, we were comfortable enough with one another to admit we eat bacon and we like it. Yes, it goes right to my ass and thighs and my pants cry out for salad, but it was GNO! BACON!
At the end of the night, 9:17 with a time stamp p.m., I called it a night. I'd had my drink and a half, (up .5! YES!), and the kids would be up at 5:00 the next morning regardless. As I left, the ladies at our table were individually "lei-ed", (some of us badly), and so I went home with a smile, a souvenir, and bacon breath to slide into bed next to my sweet Little One feeling rather accomplished. Ending the night as I began it, albeit with a higher endorphin level.
My twenties are long, long gone. My party days never really began, but are for the most part over. But this is good too. These ladies make me smile. We are comfortable with each other. We make each other laugh. We overlook fashion faux pas and support your bacon consumption. And, when my children need to know about VD, I now know who I am calling.
I love you guys, and I can say that no liquid persuasion at all.
In my twenties I was not a party-girl. I went to the state's top party school and I can count the number of events that would register as a "party" on one hand with fingers left over. I'm okay with that, it was a choice. There are times when I wish anxiety had let me cut loose a little more, but more often than not, I'm just okay with what it was. That said, the few nights out that I hold in memory started with looking through my closet for the just right outfit, a decent amount of time in personal grooming and asset-maximizing, loud music to set the tone before we left and at least one drink before we left so that we ready for what was to come. Prep time? Likely several hours. The location we headed to was dark, preferably loud, close and filled and to capacity. We left when the time started with a single digit followed by an a.m. We slept in until we were good and ready to get up.
Flash forward to my present reality. The last time I went out with some of the girls predates my oldest child's birth. In some cases I been out for a delightful and decorous birthday lunch with some of these ladies within the year, but not within the fiscal year. Prepping for this event was somewhat different. I looked in my closet for something that was clean and comfortable. I made sure it matched and that was the extent of fashion consultation. If any assets were maximized it was purely accidental. I didn't shower between work and girl's night, or at least not intentionally, however Little Middle may have sprayed me with sink sprayer when she was trying to get a glass of water. My make-up and grooming chalked up to washing the pink spray out of my hair from the school spirit event and washing away the Tammy Faye mascara streaks that twelve hours of parenting and public school will provide me every time. I didn't moisturize because I was reasonably sure no one was going to get nimbly-bimbly enough to feel my legs in their current alligator hide state. Good to go.
I took their dinner out of the crockpot to make sure the kids were fed before LOADING THEM UP IN THE CAR to go with me. Fear not...not to the bar, but to meet their father who was going to swap cars and bring them back home. Before we left, I emptied the dishwasher and loaded the washing machine one more time to cut down on the amount of laundry waiting on Saturday. (HOT right?)
On the way to the rendezvous spot, we listened to KidsPlace Live on Sirius. I can sing you all the words to "What Makes the Breakfast? by Mike Phirman if you need it. And yes, the volume was all the way up so it was kinda like being twenty in a way. I waited in a gas station parking lot for Mr. Unscripted as we debated by phone the fun-risk analysis of being out as the weather turned from cold to rainy and possibly icy. The whole thing started to feel less footloose and fancy-free and more Married with Children.
I finally got to my destination as the last to arrive. The good part being that with my low alcohol tolerance, it wouldn't take me long to catch up or nor reach my limit, so being an hour late almost works in my favor. I got the "Cheers" worthy greeting from my ladies and the evening was off and running.
Like the old days, sex was in the air. Unlike the old days we were talking about the sexuality of our waiter and how to explain radio commercials for venereal disease to our children. Like the old days, the band was loud. Unlike the old days, I couldn't hear a thing and it made me cranky and I was glad when they stopped. Like the old days, we were people-watching, but unlike the old days, we were largely grateful that non of the men offered to buy us drinks, nor asked us to dance. The options were really that sparse. Like the old days, we ordered food. Unlike the old days, we actually ate it. It wasn't boy lure, nor prop, and damn it, we were comfortable enough with one another to admit we eat bacon and we like it. Yes, it goes right to my ass and thighs and my pants cry out for salad, but it was GNO! BACON!
At the end of the night, 9:17 with a time stamp p.m., I called it a night. I'd had my drink and a half, (up .5! YES!), and the kids would be up at 5:00 the next morning regardless. As I left, the ladies at our table were individually "lei-ed", (some of us badly), and so I went home with a smile, a souvenir, and bacon breath to slide into bed next to my sweet Little One feeling rather accomplished. Ending the night as I began it, albeit with a higher endorphin level.
My twenties are long, long gone. My party days never really began, but are for the most part over. But this is good too. These ladies make me smile. We are comfortable with each other. We make each other laugh. We overlook fashion faux pas and support your bacon consumption. And, when my children need to know about VD, I now know who I am calling.
I love you guys, and I can say that no liquid persuasion at all.
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