Dear Moms at the bar,
I want to apologize for all of the times I’ve rolled my eyes and snarked in your direction. For the times I’ve complained not quietly about your exuberance. For the times I’ve muttered for you all to grow the fuck up and act like you’ve left your house before. For the words said and implied, the haikus written, the faces made – I apologize deeply and sincerely.
There were times in my life when I went out drinking frequently. I had favorite bars, drinking buddies, high tolerance and disposable income. I’d go out and there’d be a mom group at the bar and I’d sigh in disgust that they were THE WORST. I’d make sure to sit far away from them, hoping they’d be ignorable.
The mom groups were easy to spot. Women in their 30s and 40s, way too done up, giant purses, with a glint of insanity in their eyes. They’d get too drunk, too fast, and yell at one another about preschool. They’d order their drinks by shouting and then whooping – “Skinny Margs!!!” or “Cosmos all around!!” “Ooh! I want some thing PINK! Girls’ niiiiiiiiiiiight!! Wooooo!!” They’d have sparkly embellishments and aggressively highlighted hair and heels they couldn’t quite walk in. They’d dance awkwardly with younger guys, trying to be sexy and just looking desperate.
And, forgive me, I hated them. I thought they were loud and obnoxious and way too old to be acting so dumb. I wanted separate bars for moms, where they could pretend like they were on Sex & The City while I continued to drink my bourbon and watch my sports like a respectable not-quite-alcoholic.
Then. I became one of them. Sort of.
I went out of town for the night. I was staying in a hotel room! No dude, no kids, no dog. Just ladies going out and having fun. I warned my companions that I was going to be that person who has forgotten how to act in public. And I was. I drank all of the alcohol. I sang karaoke. I yelled compliments at strangers. I said “NO KIIIIIIIDS!!!” like I was friggin’ Braveheart rallying the Scots with promises of freedom. And I talked about the boys and my guy. I realized too many of my sentences were first person plural, because I do so many things with my guys, everything is now “we.”
It made me uncomfortable for a minute. Yet another reminder that I wasn’t a single, fun loving twenty-something any more. I’m now old and settled and don’t handle staying up late very well. I’m still never going to have sparkly jeans or order a ‘skinny’ alcoholic beverage, but I’m one of those ladies. The ones I couldn’t stand. And I don’t care.
So, on behalf of the too-drunk moms at the bar desperate for a good time because kid-breaks are few and far between, judge us all you want, it’s still girls night and we gon’ get cray. Although I’ll stick with bourbon.
And I’m sorry I judged you so harshly,