Packing my suitcase for our vacation to Denver, it occurred to me that we haven't done anything, just the two of us, in longer than I care to remember. I think a Bush was still in the White House, actually. We decided to leave the kids this time and celebrate our recent successes. These might include: getting the recycling to the curb at least once a month and our hella fresh completion of our Masters and therefore schooling. At least for now.
We left the kids. It was hard, but I think we both needed some time to reconnect with each other and to pretend we were footloose and fancy-free. Back in the day, we were both big clubbers-- we met on a crowded dance floor. Husband was bouncing along with "Jump Around," while I jumped up, jumped up "ta get down" and when I righted myself, I knocked his drink from his hand and onto my blouse. Romantic, I know.
However, not to downplay the importance of our vacation, we decided to return to our former selves and pack only the things necessary for dancing the night away. Being practical, I also packed an econo-sized bottle of ibuprofen; aging is hard on the liver and knees, booze is hard on the brain and, well, everything else.
We arrived at 10pm Denver time, which made it midnight for our jet lagged selves. Eager to get started on our Return To Freedom vacation, we got changed into our club clothes and hit the town.
Everyone's eyes were on us as we got out of the taxi in front of the Irish Pub in downtown Denver. I walked over in my gigantic white go-go boots and Union Jack dress, looked at the bouncer with the sassy Ginger Spice wink I'd perfected in the late 90s, slipped him a few dead presidents and we were in.
Husband, also dressed the clubbing garb of our youth, began the sideways headbang perfected by Will Ferrell in that hilarious and still-relevant film, A Night At the Roxbury.
After trying to boogie through the new "hits" I looked at Husband with memories of our dating years and stomp/sashayed my way up to the DJ to make some requests (I'd forgotten how hard it is to be delicate in 8 inch thick-heeled white boots that come to the knee). Luckily I'm a music connoisseur and had some sample playlists written out with song title, artist and beats per minute.
And, had the DJ been under 25, I also had playlists on my iPod. I don't mess around with the standard cop-out, "I don't have any of this old stuff, lady. Go home and rent Clueless like everyone else your age, Ma'am." I'm like frickin' Eagle Scout Spice, only I don't help old people cross streets and I'm never prepared for anything else, ever.
The DJ, grateful for my clear expertise, dusted off the records and began. I was smart and began with Lady Gaga's "Edge of Glory" because it already sounds like some country singer and an 80s love ballad together in holy matrimony. I began doing the Running Man and quickly stopped; I'd forgotten my vow not to break my ankle doing the Running Man while wearing my boots a second time. As if!
With my music, the party went from Auto-Tone Douchebaggery to Techno Beats and Shiznit. From Gangsta to Wangsta, and I couldn't be happier. It wasn't until a couple songs in, when DJ got to "Cotton Eyed Joe" that everything went off the heezy. We closed the place, just like old times, and wobbled our way (mostly due to my footwear) to the hotel. I was half expecting an after-party with or without Snoop Dogg, but if it happened, it wasn't at our Holiday Inn.
The thing about reliving the past is that it's never quite the way it was. Trust me when I say my Union Jack dress looked more like a napkin now that I've had a couple of kids, and when I went to Zigga-Zag-Ah, I think I jacked up my Sack-Ah-Rilly-Ack which is not as fun as it might sound. Getting Husband to get rid of his beloved Soul Patch a second time in our life together was more laborious than, well, labour. Maybe it's true: you can't go home, or clubbing, again?
It was hard to us to look at ourselves in the mirror and not compare the image before us to the one I keep enshrined in my memories-- and in pictures. Digital cameras were new then, so at least the photographic evidence is grainy at best.
My boobs and butt are both lower than I remembered, his suit is a little tighter than it used to be, yet here we were smiling and acting like a couple of kids. We had a blast dancing all night and sleeping all day. In fact, I think we had a better time now than we did then. It's so much more fun to dance and smile and laugh with your bestie than it is with random strangers, right? Well, my number one person is always my husband, and this little time-machine vacation reminded me that I'm great, he's great and we're better together. (See how I just slipped that Jack Johnson reference in there? That's because I'm SO a frickin' living iPod.)
It also reminded me that "The Macarena" could be a great name for a vacuum cleaner; it has the capacity to suck in the past, present and future with equal vigor.
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