By Puja

I just got back from a girl’s weekend in DC. I already know what you are thinking:

Three of us at the Sisters in Law Blog Staff spent the weekend “wilding out” the only way three single (and various levels of jaded) mid-thirty year old attorneys can:

with fancy dinners and brunch cocktails.

I am only half-kidding. The whole purpose of this trip was literally self-group-care. This post isn’t going to be about anything political or introspective (although the patriarchy is probably to blame for anything I complain about below), just the tale of how a girls trip led to a journey towards middle age.

Some of the things we did on this trip include: played Jenga! and participated in light dancing at a bar (please don’t tell me I was the only one attempting to twerk while playing connect four?) I managed to knock over 2 FULL drinks but still wound up with a day long hangover the next day. Then there was a 48-hours Later style phone drama with Rashee that had us crossing state lines on Saturday, and regrettably we left the mystery of the missing bracelets unsolved for Sneha on Sunday.

Saturday night we slipped into various Spanx, short dresses, and uncomfortable shoes to head to a fancy dinner at National Harbor. We sat down at our table. Oh what luck, there are three single men at the table next to us…And 30 seconds later there were two single men at the table next to as one of them passed the hell out, right there.

Our dinner conversation ranged from the usual family/relationship/career stuff to  to how many asparagus it will take to make our pee smell – we are all in possession of graduate degrees but retain the curiosity of our 12 year old selves. We proceed to eat like women whose internal organs are being trussed and mashed up by several pairs of Spanx, resulting in us having most of our food packed up for us…which we then checked at the coat check. We stood in the ID check line to enter the casino, only to be waved through without a glance…I swear to God, if my stomach wasn’t held in place by tight, yet breathable lycra AND control top tights, I would have felt that punch to the gut. I need better eye-cream. We walk around the floor, there are nothing but slot machines, all kinds…and the one club had music blaring from circa 2004 but had the nerve to charge a $20 cover. No thank you, so we go to the lounge and I can’t remember if that was when Rashee pointed out that for every single man in DC there are 8 single women…and I co-sign that because otherwise I will have to waste time wondering if my milkshake is even worth putting out in the yard anymore (there were 0 boys).

We spotted the two “soberish” dudes from dinner gooning* all over a waitress at the  lounge. I watched their interaction out of the corner of my eye most of the night and one thing kept coming into my mind – she does not look comfortable. So when they pulled her away from her other customers to walk her to the middle of the lounge floor (I am not good with spatial awareness, so take that for what you will) and act like they were God’s gift to her and pulled her into goodbye hugs.She did one of those things where you smile when you go in for the hug, and once your face is beyond their peripheral vision your actual feelings are shown and she looked as if she had just smelled a fart consisting of spoiled yogurt and rotten eggs. Naturally, when she walked by, I pulled her to our table:

* The act of being a goon.

Me: Hey can I ask you a question?

Her name tag said “Andrea.”

Andrea: Sure, what can I get you?

Me: So those guys…what was their deal?

I can’t remember if I asked this part of thought it: You did not seem comfortable, are you OK?

Andrea: What do you mean?

I regale her with the tale of their friend, Andrea confirms this tale and rolls her eyes in exasperation on that and says

Andrea: I mean they were both hitting on me. I can’t handle that. They need to pick which one was going to pursue me and they didn’t. I told them they had to pick one.

Me: (in an even tone) Yeah that sucks.

In my head, I have no clue what the hell is happening anymore, is this young lady a paid ‘night au pair’ for man-children? 

No judgement though…but what? I guess if you are a size 0 Ukranian stunner you expect that your income is going to be derived via how heavily you flirt? Later, as my Spanx was keeping me warm while we waited for our ride home (at 2AM, go US!!!), I found myself wondering whether Andrea really wanted only one to pick her or if she just wasn’t into threesomes…that may be for another day. Ahh youth. We get home, peel ourselves out of our Spanx, wash the make-up off (because they carded us and we need good skin regimens), and get some rest.

The three of us were very proud that we got dressed up and went out and attempted to have a good time (which we did) but why did the act of getting ready seem exciting? Is it a novelty at mid-thirty to expect a girls night out with your friends because life makes leaves you only enough energy to click “Yes, Netflix, I am still watching” every 4 episodes of a binge watch? I was never a big party-girl anyway growing up, but I did have my moments where the getting ready to go out was the chore, and the actual outing was the fun times. When did both shift to equal fun-loving time?

I feel at this age, and with this level of jadedness, it takes A LOT to get me excited. I am not Andrea, my nightlife isn’t two drunk goons giving me the time of day (way to take one for the team girl) and if it was, I would be appalled. I feel that if I go through the effort to build up confidence to put on a skin tight dress that not even 25 year old me would have worn, this was not the only Cock I should have seen:

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MID THIRTIES LADIES (and men): Are you this way? What do you consider a successful night out with the girls/boys/crew/squad? Are the efforts worth the payoff?