Last month I turned the big 3-0. Trying to distract me from my impending physical and mental decline, my husband invited several of my oldest and dearest friends to town to “celebrate.” Here’s how the weekend went.
Kim arrived first, having driven from Pennsylvania. Soon after she arrived, we had to go pick Jess and Molly at the airport. I could not remove my kids’ car seats from our Highlander, so we drove Kim’s minivan to the airport. Car seats and minivans. PARTY ON, PEOPLE!
After our last guest Megan arrived, Damon passed out champagne and we got ready to hit the town. Lesson: drinking champagne while bottle-feeding your baby will elicit judgment from the babysitter.
Damon dropped us girls off at a restaurant where we met another friend, Brett. Once seated we immediately complained about the noise level and squinted to read the menus. Then we played a little game called, Guess Your Server’s Age. Do not play this game if you want to keep your ego intact. You’ll think she’s your age only to discover you could be her… significantly older cousin or former babysitter.
As it was not only my thirtieth, but also Megan’s and Brett’s, our barely-legal server brought us out three free desserts. I think she felt sorry for us, but no matter. Three free desserts was about the most exciting thing to happen to any of us, and also slightly dangerous. After all, our metabolisms aren’t what they used to be.
In some misguided attempt to recapture our youth, we went to the bar across the street after dinner. The bartender gave us birthday shots, which were essentially sugar-water. We were all secretly thankful, because no way we can handle shots without a wicked hangover anymore. We had a spirited conversation about Beyoncé and Taylor Swift (We’re young! We know pop culture!), and then admitted we were all exhausted from kids/work/travel and needed to sleep ASAP.
The next day we went downtown for brunch and massages. While discussing whether or not to order mimosas, one friend said, “Oh, I can’t. I’ll have to pee during my massage.” And this was from one of the girls who has not had children yet. I opted for the mimosas because I needed the Vitamin C, and indeed, I did have to pee during my massage.
But wow, was that massage great. Really worked out my hip flexors. Childbirth, man. Your hips will never be the same.
Back at home Molly gave me a gift: Eye cream. Low blow.
That night Damon hosted a party with some friends and family from the area at a local tapas restaurant. After a nice meal and a little too much sangria, we decided to keep the party going. Someone suggested a nearby bar, which we walked to only to discover it was at max capacity.
Max capacity. Pshaw. Molly and I, forgetting we were no longer 22, went to have a little chat with the bouncer. What followed was essentially the following scene from Knocked Up. (WARNING! MAJOR FOUL LANGUAGE IN THE BELOW CLIP!)
Now neither Molly nor I was pregnant, but we were definitely old. And maybe the bouncer sensed that I had been pregnant not so long ago.
So we went to another bar not at max capacity. And realized that maybe the first bouncer didn’t let us in not because we’re old and moms, but because he knew we’d become judge-y mean girls the moment we stepped inside and witnessed all the annoying carousing going on.
Seriously youngens, get your ish together.
The recent college-grad crowd didn’t deter us from staying though, and someone bought us another round of shots. This time with actual alcohol. Not a good idea, because it made me grimace, and grimacing = crows feet. (Good thing I have that eye cream at home.)
Then the clock struck midnight and we rushed home before turning into old hags. The next morning I woke up with no voice and no energy. Welcome to 30.
Just kidding, ya’ll! Thirty isn’t old! Shoot. Thirty is like, the new 12 or something. In which case I’m going to go grab a pack of Mambas and a Tiger Beat and revel in my youth. Later!