Boyfriend and I had a rare weekend to ourselves without the baby. We got a hotel room in New Haven (and got bumped to a business class suite after mentioning that we were celebrating our 8th anniversary, which was sorta true) and partied like we had just turned 21 — we hit three bars and I was totally bent by my fourth drink. It was fantastic.
There was a little concern that we would be the old folks at the clubs (I know the preferred term is “grown and sexy,” which really just means “25+,” which in club terms is just “old”), but at one spot there was actually a group of middle-aged people gettin down and they just made us look like the young folks in the club who actually had jobs and money. And it sort of pains me to say something so anti-feminist, but it actually felt kind of nice hearing younger boys holler at my sagging, post-baby body. It was nice to get some playtime with the Mister without worrying about waking up the kid. And what the hell, I’ll just come right out and say it — it felt nice to not be seen as “Mommy” for a night. I mean, I paid for it the next day — my body definitely can’t handle that kind of alcohol abuse on a regular basis anymore, but I felt younger, a little less ancient, if only for one night.
Then this morning a coworker came by my desk and spotted a gray hair on my head. My first one.
Then I read this shit about how it took a 13-year-old three days with a Walkman (a device I was using well into high school) to finally figure out that a cassette could be played on both sides.
And I’m back to feeling ancient all over again.
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