Sometimes I miss being young and single. Until I pretend like I am.

Last Friday I ran in a 5K race here in town.

A bunch of ladies from Fit, Fierce, and Fabulous went out for drinks afterward.

Straight from the race. Sweaty clothes and all.

We went to a place called Down the Hatch.

It’s on Candlewood Lake, and it’s one of those places  where you can pull your boat right up and dock it, and walk up and have lunch.

It’s super casual,

maybe even bordering on divey,

but it’s pretty family friendly.

At least,

during the day it is.

At night,

it’s kind of a madhouse.

My husband and the kids came to watch the race.

So he took my car home, and I drove his truck to the Hatch, as it’s commonly called.

He has a big, extended cab, 8-foot bed, diesel truck.

It’s huge.

I pulled into the Hatch parking lot, and at 8:30 it was already packed.

I could barely fit the truck through the rows of cars, let alone into a parking space.

A couple hundred feet down the road there’s an old, out-of-business gas station.

I figured I’d just park there instead.

I backed the truck up and pulled out of the parking lot,

and as I did,

the power steering died.

And so did the brakes.

Luckily I hadn’t had the chance to build up too much speed.

Then I really would have been screwed.

I pulled into the gas station,

which is really fucking hard when you are driving a big ass truck with no power steering.

It’s not so easy to stop it when the power brakes no longer exist either.

I avoided hitting another truck that was parked there head on, and then nearly missed side swiping a minivan.

Now I was really ready for a drink.

I tried to call my husband, but his cell phone was turned off.

And we never,

ever,

answer our home phone.

In fact,

we have 3 handsets, but none of them work.

I don’t even know where they are.

I was going to need a ride home.

I kind of tried to drop a hint to the other ladies there.

But I didn’t live really close to any of them,

and I didn’t want to make them go out of their way.

And no one offered.

So I waited until CCB came,

and I asked her.

Of course she said yes.

Cause she’s CCB.

She brought her mom,

her two best guy friends,

with whom I instantly fell in love,

and one of her best girl friends,

who was Number 3 and 4’s first swim coach.

I already love her.

They all took good care of me.

But CCB and her friends are 21.

They don’t go to bed at 10:00 p.m.

That’s when they are usually just getting started.

So I was going to be out for a while.

Right around 10 p.m. is when all the old people leave the bars,

and when all the youngsters arrive.

Every once in a while,

I think I miss this part of life.

Having the energy to go out.

Not having the responsibility of a family.

The thrill of the chase.

But that usually lasts for approximately 5 minutes.

It wasn’t any different on Friday night.

After spending only a few minutes with CCB and her friends, I was reminded that you spend years waiting to be 21 so you can get into these places,

but then,

once you’re “legal”,

you don’t want to actually see any of the people who are also now old enough to be there.

Oh my God.

There’s so-and-so.

Don’t look.

What an asshole.

Hide me.

Yeah.

I also forgot that baring your midriff is somewhat compulsory.

So is lots of cologne.

And perfume.

And dancing like a wild animal performing some sort of courtship ritual.

Back in my young and single days,

I would have spent most of my night comparing myself to all the other girls there.

And trying to outdance them with my fancy and suggestive moves.

Not now.

I was there in my running clothes.

And sneakers.

Sweaty.

Smelly.

And immobile.

It was oddly freeing.

It’s nice to be old,

married,

and,

comfortable in your own skin.

So I sat and observed.

Feeling sage-like.

And enlightened.

I had a nice time getting to know CCB’s friends until she was finally ready to leave around 12:30 a.m.

I had to pee so badly, but didn’t want to stand in the 20 person line, staring at a bunch of drunken, horny twenty-somethings.

So I said goodbye to my new BFF’s,

gave them a hug,

and peed in the parking lot.

Then I hopped into CCB’S backseat.

Aaaah.

I couldn’t wait to get home.

But she couldn’t wait to get to McDonald’s.

I forgot about that part of being young and single.

The post-drinking-fast-food-stop.

And while we were on our way there,

I was reminded of one other thing.

The radio.

I forgot that from the ages of 17-25,

you must change the radio station at least 14 times before settling on a song.

So after CCB got her McChicken,

and sampled 7000 songs on the radio,

we pulled into my driveway.

Home sweet home felt especially sweet.

I had told my husband to shower and shave  while I was gone.

That I’d be home around 10:30,

ready to make,

ahem,

a deposit.

When I got home,

he was showered,

and shaved.

And asleep.

I knew he probably wasn’t happy.

But it wasn’t my fault.

I’d explain in the morning.

And the next night,

when all those drunken, single youngsters were back doing those same, hoochy, booty shaking, mating dances,

in the hopes of attracting a mate,

but going home drunk,

and alone,

I’d be the one who was home in bed.

Not alone.

And they’d be the envious ones.

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