Tuesday, January 29, 2013

39-year-olds Gone Wild.

I’d like to blame the following on my 39-year-old gorgeous, hilarious friend who was visiting from Denver last weekend. 

But we all know that I would be lying.

Picture this:

Downtown Toronto. 11 p.m.
Clubs recently open.
Frickin cold streets clambering with joint-carrying hipsters and 21-year-old sex pots.

And. Two 39-year-old women dressed like the cover of a Costo circular, looking to relive a bit of their past after a shared bottle of wine.

These two.
Yes, they did.
They chatted it up with these joint-smoking hipsters. 

And then the ones with the joints tried to lose the two hot 39s.

To no avail.

In-shape 39s can run in chunky heals. Unlike the sexy hipsters who wear the skinny ones. Silly girls.

Line ups at club entrances? No problem.

Free entrance for two retired hotties? Check. For entertainment? Perhaps.

Line-up for inspection of purses? Yabsolutely.

As I opened up my 12-pound arm luggage, the 40-ish year old woman cop (searching for weapons? maybe illicit drugs? nice pencils?) must have been oh-so-disappointed when she discovered the Wagon Wheel that I had stolen from my children earlier that day. 


Bar, two beers please. Dance floor, empty.

Thus began the release of two beautiful 39-year-old souls. The abandonment of every propriety we had forced upon ourselves. Finally, an audience to witness that dance we had been perfecting on our kitchen floors for years.

There were appendages swinging like fly swatters. 
There were hips thrusting as violently as they were while stuck in stirrups during the pangs of childbirth.
There was uninhibited laughter that women only have when they’re knocking on 40.

But. There was no communication over the thump, thump, thump of the club. 
After yelling into each other’s ears failed, we resorted to texting. One of us may or may not have texted to the other: “I keep farting!”

And there were boys wanting piggy back rides. Young boys. Even 19-year-old boys, here in Canada.

And then there were two nervous 39-ers finding walls to protect their weathered and well-seated bottoms. 

Don’t worry. The tired 39-ers all made it home safely. We and our bottoms. 
And our Wagon Wheels for that late-night snack.

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