I remember when a night out with the girls meant push up bras and plunging v-necks.

We would begin fluffing and primping at 4 o’clock in the afternoon and plotted which jeans would make our butts look best as we wiggled and squirmed our way across the dance floors later. Although realistically we should have been planning which shoes would be the most comfortable for spending hours trying to stand nonchalantly by the bar as we tried to find a place to sit. But practicality has no place in the Wild and Crazy Girls’ Night Out! We are going to be Wild! And Crazy! And drunk! Woo hoo, fuck yeah!

Heh.

Yesterday I rushed home from work so I would have enough time to run the flat iron through my hair again and find my lipstick. I reminded my son about his potential grounding for life, quickly pointed out a frog to my daughter, and double checked that my cell phone had enough of a charge.

I was out the door at about 6:45 for Mom’s Night Out - with a camisole under the v-neck.

(Good God I have no boobs. It must be the picture, angle, something. Sheesh - where did I put those push up bras??)

I met three other women from my mom’s group at what can best be described as a “sports bar & grill, but mainly restaurant”. We bypassed the bar and meat market section for a big comfortable booth. We ordered copious amounts of appetizers while some of us tried to figure out which drink special was actually the best deal (the SKYY Vodka and Cranberry Juice). And before the first drink hit the table, we were all laughing and nodding emphatically and falling all over one another’s sentences in an attempt to speak next.

It was a blast.

We swapped husband stories and motherhood memoirs so loudly and with such… ahem… vigor… that the previously unnoticed couple with their school aged child in the next booth became visibly disgusted (sorry! really!). And while I realize that sounds painfully boring, I don’t think I ever laughed so hard about marriage counseling and temporary separations and emergency c-sections in my life. I mean maybe it was the educational lecture from People Who Know about butt sex - but I’m telling you, these very adult, responsible, real life grown up women were a fucking riot.

We bonded over embarrassing stories and consoled each other with more embarrassing stories. We compared notes on men and work and other women. We tossed the word “bitch” around the table with a comfortable mix of affection and snarkiness.

After more than four hours, we finally headed back to our husbands and sleeping children after hugs and a verbal coin toss over who would drive me home (because I live smack dab in between the two drivers. No really, that’s why).

At about 1:00 am I tip toed into my house (ahem, coin toss winner and I might have gotten a wild hair up our blonde asses to find one more stop for just one more drink and possibly gotten very, very lost in the process), shut off the lights and locked the doors behind me. I slipped the remote out of my husband’s hand and set his glasses on the nightstand before sliding into bed beside him. Without the infamous puke bowl.
This morning I woke up with only a slight headache and a little tired. I remembered something about promising to join a gym and get back on the low carb diet “right after this one last cheese and bacon covered fry!” (I believe “5 am” was also part of that conversation.)

Ahem. ANYway, my point is - I survived the night with my dignity mainly in tact and functional enough to supervise the morning routines with only the aid of a couple Ibuprofen. When my husband asked if I had fun, I beamed that it was great! Hysterical! Very good time! But when I tried to recount why, I realized it didn’t sound like anything wild or crazy or extraordinary.

I have decided, this officially makes me a grown up.

And I am totally cool with that.

Now, if I can just figure out what the fuck happened to my elbows…

Posted in It's All About Me, Photoshop is not an addiction