One of my best friends, Sarah, turned thirtysomething last week. I felt we should celebrate her fabulousness, and I missed the actual birthday while out of town, so I threw her a party. At her house. Which she cleaned. And cooked for. And invited everyone to. (Great friend, huh?)It seems like we used to have more social time. We used to go out. I can't believe it had been over a year since we'd been dancing. Apparently being mature, family-women supersedes aerobic exercise to loud music in smoky dark environments where people-of-questionable-motives gather. Go figure.
Anyway, it's always a good time to gather loads of delicious food and fun people, so we started at her lovely historic home (Buy it now!). Three kinds of soup, bean dip, bacon cream cheese dip, "homemade" potato salad, BBQ beef sandwiches, fruit platters, crackers and cheese, cherry wine and martinis. We are seriously good at simple but delicious food. Oh, and I did manage to make cake.
Then it was dancing time! I desperately wish this was available in a less vice-ridden environment. I like dancing. I like rock music. I like fruity drinks. I like people. I like feeling sexy. (I despise cigarette smoke.) Somehow, these things get thrown together and suddenly all I'm concerned about is who's pushing me inappropriately and how tragic the next morning (or next 5 years) will turn out for those around me. Oh well. Maybe it's kinda an intercessory prayer opportunity. Plus a few hours of groove and excellent people watching.
I hope all in all Sarah had a happy birthday party. And that she'll let us do it again. (Before another year goes by and more body parts head south would be excellent.)
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