I went out last weekend. Like out, out. My girlfriends threw a Sex and the City Saturday night party, so with the blessings of GrandmaN’s babysitting talents, I got myself gussied up and headed out.
I decided to pick Carrie as my muse (of the four Sex and the City gals). I was never hugely into that show, but I’ve seen my fair share of teasers/previews. She writes, I write. And I had a headband with flowers and feathers.
Admittedly, I don’t go out often. This isn’t a result of muppets; I’ve never been one to “hit the town.” In college, when kids were getting ready to stalk the neighborhood in skimpy clothes in search of red cups with lukewarm beer, I was getting ready for bed. One night I agreed to a theatre cast party after the evening show. I was out until 11! Auntie Beeca had turned down my sheets and laid out my jammies out of concern that I may be tipsy. (I was home before the rest of my floor had even found their first house party.)
Not much has changed as the decades pass. So as my girlfriends laughed and called me a trooper, I went out to enjoy adult company. So what does a night out on the town consist of? Conversations about our children. (And of course a martini.)
We’d gathered at a friend’s house for dinner and planned to hit a bar as the evening progressed. Here’s where I drop the bombshell that I have never actually been to a bar. Well, I’ve been to a sports bar for a burger at lunchtime, but I have never been to “A BAR.”
By 10 p.m., most of us had strewn ourselves across the couch. Whew! A night of talking about the adorableness of our children in fancy clothes (the “going out” feel of which involved sparkles on my headband and a skirt I’d otherwise wear to work) had completely worn us down. I was desperately ready for bed.
Forty-five minutes later, I succumbed to peer pressure. One drink. I agreed to go out to A BAR for one drink. My vision of this endeavor was vastly different from reality. Granted – due to my aforementioned lack of nightclubbing experience, my vision was largely shaped by Hollywood. And I was definitely not in Rick’s 1942 Café American…There is a distinct lack of glamour lost when hitting up your city’s hot spot in a Mom-mobile.
As if I didn’t feel out of place enough. “Don’t mind those Cheerios. I think we can all fit if you can just scootch past the two rear-facing car seats and throw yourself into that third row. Just shove that stroller to the side.”
The place was packed! Who are all these people who can stay up so late?! All I could picture was the neon sign above my head counting down the minutes before the muppets would wake up. Did I want to go to the Irish bar? No…that one looked like it had a long wait – seriously detrimental to my precious sleeping time.
Ultimately I bailed before I had my one drink. Guess I’m not as tough as I thought.
As we walked back to the soccer-mom-mobile, a fellow mom and I laughed at some of the drunken idiots stumbling around and mentally chastised the parents of toddlers running around outside the bar. Next time, happy hour, we agreed. 5 p.m. is much more my speed.
Next time we feel like getting ca-razy, I’m thinking a glass of wine and cheesy reality TV. I’m too old for this…