I miss the obnoxious, self-satisfactory, ego mania that ensues when my imperviousness to bar lines takes full effect. Shaaaaah!
I miss the thrill of standing on the foot bar of the bar stools to be tall enough to get the bartender's attention for yet another tasty adult beverage. I long for the days when bartenders would tell me by name to "get off the goddamn barstool again, Nicole!" and the sheepishness mixed with delight of my new [diluted] Captain and Coke. I miss knowing that even though my fingers weren't crossed, my acquiescence was a sham and that bar stool was my stage and I was going to stand on it as long as I had legs. Leglessly kerschnickered or not. In fact, especially when I was leglessly kerschnickered.
As I sit here, with Nug-meister all tuckered out, I sip a homemade bev and I contemplate the status of my life. Despite my now very typical, very worn in yoga pants and pony tails, I clean up pretty nice, and my husband annoyingly (and quite pleasingly) looks good in anything he wears (men). I think we need to nut up, get a sitter, (mom?), and do the DAMN THANG.
We have to go OUT. Where people are. With noise and elbows. And bar stools.
Happy St. Patty's Day, bitches.