Part I of Party like you’re 22 again went off with many a hitch.  I went skiing for half of Friday with my oh so benevolently generous work, which paid for our ski passes and rentals.  I fell less than five times the whole half-day, an accomplishment of mine that is up there with wearing a clean white shirt to work and coming home in a clean white shirt. Yes, the same white shirt.  Either my calves grew or my aches and pains from other sources prevented me from feeling the pain last year but this year, I felt it after the first run and I was ready to take off the skis and go tubing instead.  But then I thought of what I’d write in my blog:  to say that I skiied would have been an exaggeration, but if I could use the word ski in plural form, then you’d be awed and truly amazed.

So up I got and went again.  And again.  Oh what fun…until I hurtled towards some trees and could not stop.  My snow plough wasn’t stopping me and in a panic I tried to fall but at the angle I was at, falling wasn’t happening unless I wanted to break my neck in the process…so I sort of jumped into my fall to minimize the awkward angle and my head landed close enough to the trees to make me give a sigh of relief.  Once I got back up the hill I started down a new hill, which was strangely empty.  As soon as I saw the ice and rocks. I decided I wasn’t quite that adventurous and headed back to my tried and true hill (somewhat appropriately called Easy Street).  I followed up a couple of hours of skiing with tubing and that was fun!  I even went down face first!  And then I went down on my butt and got enough snow in my snow pants to give me the oh so sexy soggy bottom.  How the snow fought through four layers to end up in my underwear is one of life’s mysteries.

Skiing is one of those things that you do, enjoy, and in a moment of exhilaration and a feeling of being so fit and sleek and sexy on the slopes, you vow to do it more often.  You never do, of course, unless somebody offers to drive you there and back and pay for the pleasure. 

Since I’m not 22 anymore, I had to come home and take a nap before hitting the club for a friend’s 30th birthday bash, Part I.  Almost four hours later I woke up bleary eyed and about an hour behind.  I called some friends who were also going and they too had fallen asleep: leaving home after 10pm is just not normal anymore.  By 12:45am we were in line being snubbed by a bouncer who clearly uses his job to compensate for a lack of something in his life.  I was hissing at him and his cocky ways until we finally got in.

The average stats of the clubbers was 5’3, 120lbs.  Including the men.  Those who were my height or taller were a very obvious minority and for my supershort best friend to feel tall it must be a smurf club indeed.  Fighting through the crowds to go to the bathroom felt like I was hip checking people but really it was because I was well above the average height and weight.  I’m lucky the bouncer let me in!

The music was good and the birthday boy could still recognize us which is all I expected around 1am [even though he's older he can still truly party like he's 22].

To continue the terpischorean theme of the weekend, I went dancing again on Saturday night for Part II of Party like you’re 22 again.  After a delicious dinner at Cornerstone, a much smaller group headed off to Suite 34 for some dancing.  I felt much more closer to the average in this club but this club did not have the music to grab our attention for long and we left after a couple of hours.  I arrived home with sore legs, half shut eyes and a body that was very strongly reminding me that I am no longer 22.

Filed under: Adventure, Celebrations, Friends, WurdyGurdy by jummy