Oh, I used to party.
I loved it. Whether it was a bush party out in the middle of butt-fuck-nowhere or a decadent dress-up-in-your-sluttiest-number club party, I was THERE. Dancing, drinking, laughing. Rolling home when it started to get light out. It was a lifestyle that I was born for.
Then I had my babies. And partying seemed a foolish sort of past time. A waste of money. A trivial pursuit of energy. I disdained the parties. I was in bed by 9. My fulfillment came via first teeth and little ones finally peeing on the potty. I had quit that lifestyle.
I gave my 30s to this.
Then an invite to go to Vegas with five amazing women came to me. I had finally gotten back into the work force after many years of being a Stay-At-Home mom and pinching pennies, and generally turning down these opportunities because my kids and family were always first. But then, I thought to myself Why the hell not? I’m going! I haven’t given myself anything like this since Pearl Jam was relevant and the internet was dial-up.
Oh. My. God.
What a weekend it was. Amazing food. Clubs until the wee hours of the morning. Dancing, drinks, dressing up. High heels and short skirts. Lights and music. Indescribable fun.
Truly, I was finally home.
That party girl I told to go away back around 1999 was asleep for over a decade, but let me tell you what. She is awake and ready to go. She has this ability to wear heels until 4 am. She loves vodka. Her hair is fantastic. And wow, can that bitch DANCE!
I have total respect for her. I like her a lot actually. She’s really fun. I can’t wait to let her out again. Hopefully very very soon. I’ve welcomed her back with open arms.