Monday, June 6, 2011

Suburbs of Our Discontent

It's official. No matter how young I may feel, I'm not in my 20's anymore. Or my 30's for that matter.

This weekend my husband and I went away to Miami Beach. We go away once a year without the kids so that we can each remember who that other adult is who lives in the house with us and uses up the Aqua Fresh.

This was the first time we'd gotten on an airplane without the kids. I felt young and care-free until the plane touched down in Miami and I turned on my cell phone to hear a message from the school nurse letting me know my son had fallen from the monkey bars because I'm a selfish, pleasure-loving floozy.

Okay, the nurse said the first part, and my conscience said the second.

Fortunately, he just had a little cut, so I could go on my merry way and not have to turn right back around to Boston.

Here's the thing about South Beach I didn't appreciate though. Even when it isn't Spring Break, it's a magnet for young partyers ready to start sucking down the double frozen Coronas starting at noon. (Talk about "abusing Mr. Malt"--these kids definitely could have drunk these 17th-century drunkards under the table.) I just don't have those kind of drinking chops anymore. I also don't have a tattoo.

I thought the rhythm was gonna get me; instead we were asleep by 10:00.

But when you can count on one hand the number of nights in the past decade that you've slept through uninterrupted, that's a party.

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