I turn 32 tomorrow and I just want to say, I am loving my 30s. My 20s were traumatic. This past weekend my work-wife and girlfriends from NYC took me out. It was pretty snazzy. I even bought a new dress, that my mom said was too tight and short. Work-wife did my makeup and hair. We drank champagne at her apartment (she had a glass). It was fun and I was excited. I haven’t celebrated my birthday like this in five years. There’s always dinner and cake, but this was all-out.
I met my girlfriends, the same that shadowed me through my pregnancy, at Seraphina in the Meatpacking district. Jemma and I hit some traffic and were a little late, but were happily greeted by my girls who had settled in at the bar and befriended Henry the bartender (obv). I was immediately given a shot of tequila. On top of the champagne I drank at Jemma’s apartment. “Happppy birthday!” the girls sang out. We were also celebrating my friend, Lee’s birthday. We met Freshman year of college. I had dreams of becoming a writer and Lee, a photographer. (You can check out her work here. It’s amazing.)
Henry took a liking to my friend Claire, which provided much entertainment throughout our dining experience. My friends bought me champagne cocktails with strawberries smashed in them. We ate pizza and pasta and chatted about Lo’s upcoming wedding, circled around a table of girlfriend love. It’s a special kind of love.
Cake was next. Lee and I blew out the candles. I made a wish for my son. Jemma fed me cake. I harassed someone on the street to take our pic (in a nice kind of harassing way). We walked a few cold blocks to The Jane, laughing, my hair whipping in the wind.
We checked our coats. I drank more champagne cocktails and sips of everyone’s cocktails (I’m told). I found a table to dance on.
I recall eating pizza next. And feeding work-wife pizza. (This was confirmed.)
And waking up in Jemma’s bed. And drinking some delicious Sierra Mist soda. Then going home to be with my child.
I think it’s OK for moms to party. Do you? Share your opinion. And remember, you can put the mom in Chrissy, but you can’t take the Chrissy … out of Chrissy.
Disclosure: Work-wife was my DD and DC. Designated driver and designated Chrissy. She had one drink the entire night and escorted me everywhere I went. She also ensured I didn’t fall off the table.
Get the latest updates from Kid Scoop — Like us on Facebook