I can officially confirm two things about life after marriage and motherhood; first - there is life after marriage and motherhood and secondly, men in nightclubs don't give a monkeys about either of those two things.
Here's what brought me to this conclusion. I just got back from a hen weekend in Niagara - the Canadians call it a stagette. My sister-in-law is getting married next week to a sweet guy and being a very traditional type of gal, a hen night was imperative. I was never a massive fan of the hen night as I always found them tacky; the whole 'last night of freedom' moronic - that is until I hit 30 when basically any night out was a bonus. And it was in this spirit I bulldozed my way out of work and into Friday night.
More than a tiny part of me was intrigued to see what the dynamic of a group of mostly married working moms pushing the 35 - 44 bracket would be. I imagined one of two things; Utter debauchery (the kind of which would stand up in a divorce court) or one big Spanx- wearing yawn.
I couldn't have been more wrong, which basically is the story of my life. There was more Mojo in our hotel room than in Austin Power's pants and more camaraderie than an episode of 'Friends'.
The evening began in a large hotel room with strawberry flavoured wine, corona beers, Jenga - the drinking edition and the sound of one of the girls manually pumping breast milk (she'd had a baby 7 weeks earlier). Bottle upon bottle of the stuff casually packed in ice alongside the rest of the booze; The promise of a bizzaro night solidified by that image.
It took the best part of 2 hours to get out the door, 2 hours of good humoured, filth-filled laughter. I don't know what it is about getting a bunch of tipsy ladies together that invariably leads to talk of pooh, wee and farts. After a meal that left me in no doubt as to why North Americans are fatter than the rest of the world, we headed out to dance the calories off.
At midnight we headed for the Dragonfly nightclub in Niagara Falls and not two minutes into the night my first proposition; would I dance with what looked like a boy whose voice was yet to break. I debated not the answer but whether I was more flattered or dismayed. Not a joke veil or L plate in sight and yet it appeared a group of ladies, utterly self-effacing ones at that - was the green light for a free for all.
The most startling thing to me was how aggressive these 'men' were - plundering into one-sided conversations like they were god's gift. I can tell you now - only God could love them. I guess it's always been that way, I'd simply forgotten. 10 years ago I might have been bamboozled into wasting precious drinking and dancing time on letting these guys down easy. Today I watch through the bottom of a glass as I drain its contents before heading back to the bar.
Oh and we danced with ferral abandon. We closed the place.
The next morning, deep fried eyelids solidified shut, a mouth that felt and tasted like a rancid old chickpea - no longer the yummy mummy so alluring to the young boys, I was feeling more like a Himalayan Mountain Lion after a day outrunning poachers on an empty stomach.
ROARRR!
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