I’m in a festive mood, friends.
Yesterday was my 37th birthday, and very soon I’m heading out to spend a few days roughing it in the woods.
Last week, when Hubby was scheming a birthday date, he asked me to get a sitter. I needed to know what time, so he had to divulge the details. My sweet Hubby wanted to take it back 15 years and go clubbin’ downtown.
I wish y’all could have seen my face. I’m sure I looked like someone had just proposed attending a disco on the moon. While I feel very young and fun, I’m sure that I would spend more of my time at the club worrying about those poor girls whose heels are too tall to be drinking that much. And for goodness sake, put some pants on, ladies!
Of course, I probably was one of those girls at some point (although I never went out without my pants), but now my oldest child is closer to 21 than I am. So despite my feeling like a spring chicken, I am totally a mother hen.
I politely declined the clubbin’ offer and suggested a nice dinner (Chauhan, and it was amazing, as always) and being a Nashville tourist for an evening. We walked Broadway with all the out-of-towners and wandered into any and all establishments that promised live music in open air.
We reflected on how long it’s been since we had a Nashville evening out like that, and couldn’t remember. We were enjoying some unseasonably pleasant weather on the rooftop of the new downtown Mellow Mushroom (which I also highly recommend) when I noticed that the young musician who was playing looked like he hadn’t slept since the Bush administration.
I asked Hubby if it would be inappropriate to approach the musician and tell him that I’m worried about him and suggest a little break from life on the road. Also, a guy walked in wearing swim trucks, a Hawaiian shirt and a beach towel around his neck. Somebody needed to tell that dude that we were not at a beach resort and his ensemble was bizarre.
In fact, I probably could have provided valuable life advice to most of the downtown partiers. Longer shorts, less lipstick, don’t get any more tattoos, maybe slow down on the shots, those shoes are not practical for walking, that boy is not buying you a drink because he wants to get to know you, pineapple on pizza is an abomination, faux hawks are so 2008, stop taking advantage of the buy two/get one free piercing deals, and FOR. THE. LOVE. stop getting on those ridiculous pedal taverns.
I realized that maybe I am viewing all things through my mom-lenses and I just need to check out of that head space and go with it. When you live in mother hen land all day every day, it’s hard to think like a spring chicken.
I finally got in the zone and embraced my inner spring chicken. I regret to report that I did not rebound from a night out the way a spring chicken might. It was definitely a Mother Hen recovery when the kids woke me up the next morning.
Hubby suggested that perhaps I consider the possibility that I am a fall chicken. I think I can live with that.
Overheard at the salon: “You can use laziness as an excuse, but you can’t use fatness as a reason.”
Julie Holt is a wife, mother of three, hair stylist, runner, reader, writer, and is tired. Very tired. She works in Brentwood, lives in Spring Hill and can be reached at email@example.com. You can follow Julie on Twitter @jh_lighter_side.