Ten years ago in New York City, my typical Saturday night might look a little something like this: 9pm dinner at some swanky establishment with a name like food. (no capitals, period at the end of the title), post-dinner drinks at a neo-lounge while a DJ spins trip-hop (still on vinyl), post-drinks drinks and dancing at a Cuban restaurant with an underground salsa club, followed by even more drinks at a sawdust-on-the-ground Irish pub where the bartender has a legit Irish accent. The whole evening is capped off by the best damn slice of pizza you’ve ever had at 4am.
Ten years later, my weekends are a little different. I’m pretty psyched when I don’t have to cook on Fridays and we go to Chipotle instead. There’s always at least one trip to Safeway. And our fun consists mostly of playdates, hanging out with family, and exposing our son to superhero movies he’s way too young to be watching.
Don’t get me wrong: I love my family life. But the contrast is STARK. So when I get a chance to let loose and hang out with friends sans child, there’s a part of me that yearns for that old city adventure. Unfortunately, the other part of me that’s firmly ensconced in my 30s pulls a Danny Glover and goes, “I’m too old for this shit.”
Still, there are many other ways to have fun other than being a perky 20-something-year old running around in a tiny tank top while banker types buy you free drinks. In fact, I’ll submit that the fun you have in your 30s is a deeper, genuine kind of fun—mostly because it’s so infrequent that you cherish it, but also because you find joy in the little things.
Exhibit A: this past Saturday night I had a spontaneous good time after movie plans with friends fell through. We started the night at 6pm and were home by 10:30pm with plenty of time left to do my new favorite thing in life—lay on my couch in my boner-killing sweatpants and binge-watch crappy TV on Netflix.
The plans were with two of my coworkers, one of whom is a fabulous, laid-back fellow mom and the other of whom is an adventurous ginger comfortable enough in his manhood to join two moms for a viewing of Step Up All In. Since two of us are parents, we made the plans two months in advance.
Will (ginger) and I carpooled up to Santa Cruz to meet up with Carrie (fellow mom) and blasted mediocre 90s rock the whole way up. We headbanged to Silverchair’s “Tomorrow” and rattled off Blues Traveler lyrics like machine-gun fire. When we were five minutes away from Carrie’s house, she texted us, “So apparently, none of the three theaters in Santa Cruz are playing Step Up anymore! I’m so pissed!”
Movie fail.
We briefly considered hanging out at Hot Topic and Spencer Gifts (in keeping with our 90s theme) but then remembered that Santa Cruz doesn’t suck like Salinas does, and there are actual things to do there on a Saturday night.
We started at this bar/lounge place for appetizers and beverages and Carrie and I made our British waiter tell us the specials five times. Food and drink were average; playlist was killer. It was as if this entire evening was an homage to my teenage years, only this time we hit on my classic rock phase, with Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and The Doors on heavy rotation.
Will ordered fries and the waiter brought over a meager handful of potato slices in a fancy dish. Waiter explained that the fry appetizer is typically just one potato, but he was going to bring over another order because he wasn’t sure Will was going to make it through the winter on a single tiny tater. Carrie’s tomato and cucumber salad was way more plate than salad, and my $6 deviled eggs were sad and dry. My martini was too much vermouth and not enough olive juice, and Will’s beer was way more fruity than tart. In my New York days, I would have turned up my nose and let it sour my evening. Now? The amount of shits I gave were inversely proportional to the amount of shits I cleaned out of my son’s diaper for the first year of his life.
After finishing up drinks and appetizers by 7pm in the evening, what were three approaching middle-age friends supposed to do? Walk into a sex shop, that’s what.
I’ve talked before about how deeply uncomfortable I am discussing sex with family and/or coworkers, although there are a few exceptions. Turns out, these two are the exceptions. As we headed to the back of the store (where we all know they keep the good stuff), Will and I bopped around turning on and off various super high-tech vibrators, banging on the devices like Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller in Zoolander all “the files are IN the computer?!” We then stumbled onto the book How to Live With a Huge Penis, which I offered to purchase for Will if he felt too embarrassed to admit it, and a selection of condoms in clear plastic toy capsules that looked like poo.
However, there’s only so long you can spend in a sex shop with your coworkers before shit gets awkward. It was time to move on.
Next we walked into a little boutique where I tried on a leather jacket so sexy it made me cry. Look at it. Just look at it. It’s $480. I’m thinking about starting a Kickstarter campaign to fund my “I need this jacket” project. If that dude can earn $55,000 for potato salad, anything is possible.
This whole time, Carrie had been JONESING for some candy. So into the shoppe we went, where she found this popple-wannabe Giants toy and snuggled it so adorably I just had to take a picture. Also, she demanded that I take a picture. “Take my picture!” she pointed her finger at my phone. Then she resumed her adorable snuggle pose. As we walk out of the store, Carrie said, “I’m obsessed with that Giants ball!” and Will and I degenerated into snickers because it could so easily have been, “I’m obsessed with these giant balls!” I’m telling you, guys, your 30s: pure joy.
At the second candy shoppe of the night, we found a whoopee cushion and concocted an evil plan to place it on the chair of an unsuspecting coworker at the beginning of a team meeting. I refuse to say who, so anyone at Evan-Moor: watch your asses.
We ended the evening at an Irish pub where I ordered a White Russian and the bartender was impressed. He immediately referenced The Big Lebowski and told me I could take any rug in the place.
Me: As long as it’s not one that really ties the room together, amirite?
Bartender: HA! Now all you need is a robe.
Me, glancing down at my totally-appropriate-for-a-night-on-the-town mom sweater: Well, this seems robe-ish enough.
Bartender: Agree.
Will, Carrie, and I then watched a YouTube video of the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon theme song and argued over why we won’t go see the new movie. (Carrie saw it and liked it…told us Raphael is the leader…Will, the bartender, and I reeled back in horror. EVERYONE KNOWS LEONARDO IS THE LEADER.)
At 9:30pm, one person in our group yawned and that was it. The yawn contagion began, and we agreed it was time to head out. Will offered to pay for the whole tab and the bartender closed him out, only charging him for two drinks. We’re not sure if he meant to do that, or if he thought Will was only paying for himself. I’d like to think it’s because the dude abides.
So three coworkers spent their Saturday night eating and drinking overpriced, mediocre appetizers and drinks, listening to mediocre 90s music, browsing toys in sex and candy shops (but not buying them), coveting amazing leather jackets in local boutiques (but not buying them), and watching YouTube videos at an Irish bar.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you have a wicked good time when you’re in your 30s.
The Olive Gal
green of skin, black of heart
