Monday, April 11, 2011

Suburbs of Our Discontent

This weekend, I didn't cook anyone's breakfast, nag anyone about feeding his pet, or worry about anyone's playdates. In other words, I spent the weekend in the company of a great group of women on an island where no one could find me without taking a ferry.

And in one word: Aahhh.

It was a writers' weekend, arranged by a good friend with in-laws who have a well situated vacation home. We'd write, run, eat, drink, read Tarot cards, and—yes—talk about the things men have always feared women talk about when they get together: like the state of their husbands' hair and how loudly they snore.

But as much as men may fear that we focus on their inadequacies when we get together, the truth of the matter is we spent much more time talking about the state of our own selves. Maybe this is what happens when a group of over-40's have nothing else to focus on but themselves and their drinks. It's not like we were hauling out the mirrors and speculums or anything (although one of us was an ob/gyn), and nothing YouTube worthy happened (sorry, guys). We were just a bunch of middle-aged broads sharing our collective wisdom and considerable life challenges.

Okay, and someone may have mentioned clitoral hoods, which is an awesome phrase to start punning on once you get past the yech factor.

But I think I'll stop there. What gets talked about on the island, stays on the island.

No comments:

Post a Comment