There are so many positive things that come with getting older. We grow in confidence. We become more comfortable in our own skin. Great friendships become deeper, and the toxic ones have a way of falling by the wayside. In short, it’s easier to hone in on what’s truly important. Life just becomes more, well…more genuinely fun. One drawback however, is the toll that fun can have on a slightly more mature body.  Take, for example, the socially-packed weekend.

To a twenty-something, a weekend full of activities is an expectation. Missing even the most ridiculous of events is unacceptable, because responsibilities and recovery time are fairly nonexistent.  But to the thirty-something, a weekend full of social commitments - although just as entertaining as always - can wreak havoc on the body and the early week’s productivity.

I just had one of those weekends. Don’t get me wrong, it was a blast…more fun and interesting than most of my recent social outings. But boy am I paying for it now. Yes, I am still paying for it.  Can I get a “hell yeah” from my fellow gal pals!

Let’s break this down. Friday night was meant to be quite tame, and by all accounts it was just that. Susan hosted our 3rd Girl’s Night Out…a low-key eating/sipping soiree at her seemingly professionally decorated apartment. We each brought our own little dish (so very mature of us) and settled in for a night of chatting and Olympic viewing. We did both, of course, but before I knew it, the intended “early night” had turned into not so early, and with big plans looming for Saturday, I finally peeled myself away and attempted to turn in before late night became early morning.

Saturday was a different story. Susan and I had been invited to a “Party Like A Rockstar” event held at Warehouse Live - a music venue just across the freeway from Minute Maid Park.  After getting lost and arriving an hour or so later than expected, we dragged our slightly tired (and costumed) bodies into the crowded building full of Jim Morrisons, Gwen Stefanis, Sono Bonos, and (my personal favorite) Bret Michaels (I’m posting one of those pics just for you, Dawn). 80s Madonna (Susan) and Sheryl Crow (me) weaved through the crowd and bellied up to the bar for a “free” Coors Light. An hour or so into the festivities, as we continued to critique costumes, Susan turned to me and said:

 ”Are you bored?”

“A little bit, yeah. But let’s stick it out.”

Well, we certainly did that. Moments later, we met up with a crew of interesting and fun folks (shout out to my new reader, Ramesh, and his buddy Omar)…and, as often is the case, things took off from there. Before I knew it we were illegally shuttled into the private after party, full of interesting characters and the third band of the night. We literally partied like rockstars…with rockstars. That, of course, was not enough, we had to leave and continue the party. When we finally took our leave for the night - tired and ready to crawl into our respective beds, Susan gasped.

“What? What is it!” I said, fearing something had gone terribly wrong with her car.

“Nikki!  It is 5 a.m.!”

“It can’t be!” I shrieked.

Susan pointed at the dashboard clock.  And that’s when I knew. I knew I was going to be in hell for the next two days. So, here I am on Monday night, still fairly listless, and dreaming of tomorrow. Because, I know, as I’m sure you do my darling thirty-somethings, that one full night of sleep does not a recovery make. These days, we need a full forty-eight hours to return back to our fully-functioning human form.  As the classic Broadway songstress, Annie, croons: “The sun’ll come out tomorrow.” I, for one, can’t wait. I need my wits about me to start planning for the upcoming weekend. A girl must have her priorities.

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