It's been over six months living this 'woman in her thirties' business and I've got lots and lots of ammo. My catch phrase is now my way of gauging the legitimacy of any activity. 'What Would Jesus Do?' has morphed into 'What Would a Woman in her Thirties Do?' I hope Jesus isn't mad.
The girls are getting together this weekend, and I counted about twenty five emails that went back and forth today over where to meet for dinner Saturday night. The first choice was a budget restaurant that prides itself in the sloppiest enchiladas and the drippiest, most fluorescent margaritas. When we were in our twenties this place was our Friday night hangout and never ceased to get us good and buzzed before whatever party or bar we were going to later.
When this place was suggested, I immediately checked my 'woman in her thirties' meter. No, I said quickly, a woman in her thirties does NOT go to diarrhea-enhancing Mexican food, especially if it's a place that is linked to her college experience. When someone suggested tapas, I jumped. Tapas sounds posh. Legitimate. Very 'woman in her thirties'.
As the emails went back and forth, I was reminded of easier times. Times before loan payments and husbands, times before our jobs were called careers. We took turns jabbing each other, just like the old days, and it was decided that the most pregnant of the group would decide. How diplomatic of us.
I have a feeling I know her pick, and it's going to involve salt-rimmed glasses, salsa that is too mild for my liking, and tears of laughter streaming down our faces as we think, in the back of our minds of course, that it used to be great when we lived close and did this kind of thing all time.
And it's going to involve Immodium. Lots of it.