This weekend we hit the road and headed off to a 50th birthday party. Yes, you read it correctly. 50th birthday party. Hmmm, how on earth did I get to the stage whereby I’m now celebrating half centuries of folks wot I know? I’m going to be quick to point out here that the 50 recipient is actually on my husband’s side, let’s think of it as a 50th through marriage because, of course I’m obviously way too sprightly to be involved with a 50th. (Quickly doing maths to work this out then remembering I can never actually remember how old I am anyway.) But I’m definitely nowhere near to being 50. Or knowing anyone who is.
So, this 50th malarkey, swanky location, full 24 hours of toddler-free bliss and me dressed up in neon. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love, love, love a spot of fancy dress, indeed, we even had varying degrees of masquerade-ery at our wedding, but, I’ve not had an opportunity to dress up in my fancy glad rags for a while and it’s kind of starting to feel as though I maybe running out of opportunities.
My average day involves whacking on the same pair of leggings, wellies and waterproof to walk the pup, changing in to some other clothes, I don’t really give too much of a crap about, and ending up wearing designer toddler gunk. At the end of the day I peel myself out of crusty, yet bizarrely also somewhat damp attire, and plonk on my fleecy jim jams. Howdy sofa! Well that’s me done for the day. Netflix and chill literally means that in our house.
I get such joy out of staying home with Sam and Pepper but, as I sorted through piles of stuff wot needed sorting through after our epic DIY efforts, it struck me just how many beautiful clothes I have that I’m not sure I’ll ever get the chance to wear again. Designer dresses, smart suits and things made out of silk. Hello old friends! How nice to see you again as I’m vacuum packing you for the loft.
Pre 2015 I like to think I was pretty well turned out, I had my much cherished work wardrobe, I’d blow dry my hair and had a dressing table. Needless to say that’s now been relocated to the spare room. These days I’m lucky if I even get four minutes to wash my face, slap on a bit of anti-ageing moisturiser and pull my mascara face. You’ll therefore, hopefully, understand my slight disappointment at this lack of fancy pants clothing, for the ‘do’ then!
However, as the day approached, and bits and bobs of neon arrived through the post, I began to feel excited! So what if I was going to have back-combed hair and blue lips, I was GOING ON A NIGHT OUT. And this hadn’t happened for a while! There would be the eating of a meal, the dancing of a jig (or Wigfield’s Saturday Night and, as it turns out, I can still remember all the moves…) the drinking of the wine and adult-ish conversation, well, as much as you can get whilst sitting next to a man dressed as Dorothy! I began to relish in the thought of being toddler-free and actually ending the night covered in my own gunk. Hurrah!
Little did I know that, as wonderful and fun as the party was, what I absolutely loved best was the afternoon! I spoke to my husband and I didn’t shout out military style commands at him once, we held hands, I was tempted to start swinging from his arm but thought better of it, we didn’t want to end up in A&E. We wandered in to shops on a whim, we visited a micro pub, we paid a call to a posh bar and drank gin and bubbles, and didn’t have to share our olives with another person, or feel guilty about eating in front of a dieting dog. It was great!
Now don’t get me wrong, I love Sam and P, they’re my happy, my everything and I adore them, but do you know what? I also remembered that my husband is pretty darn wonderful too, that he makes me laugh, is actually rather interesting sometimes and will also steal a life sized inflatable crocodile with me. And a blow up banana. He’ll then squeeze us all in to a cab and tell me, repeatedly, how amazing I am because I had the foresight to buy chorizo for our drunken return. BOOM. Crocodiles and chorizo, what more does a gal need from life at 1am?
As Tenacious D would no doubt agree; that really is teamwork.