Friday Night

This past weekend, one of Greg's childhood friends came to town to celebrate his 40th birthday.  Hi, Todd.  Hi, Cassie.  Actually, he had a whole posse come in town to celebrate.  Some were from Kansas City, some were from Denver and we were lucky enough to already be living here so we only had to travel about 8 miles for the festivities.  His lovely, lovely wife planned a fun and relaxing weekend for all involved.  On Friday, the boys golfed.  G-Pat was in his happy place.  The girls went to the spa at the resort where they were staying.  I did not get to partake in the spa activities as I had two little hell-yuns running amok and creating chaos.  Which is exactly what they do best.

On Friday night, we all met up for dinner at this very posh restaurant at the resort.  G-Pat had said to me, "why don't you go find a new outfit to wear to the dinner."  He must have realized that lycra work-out pants would not be appropriate attire at such a fancy place.  "G-Pat, who holds a quarter so tight the eagle screams, say what?"  I replied.  You don't need to tell me twice and I happily went on my way to buy some new threads. 

Can anyone explain to me why it is that when I want to buy a new outfit; I can't find anything I like but when I do not need to be shopping for new clothes, I could spend thousands of dollars?  Why is that? 

Well, I found a new shirt and some pretty awesome high-heeled stripper shoes.  (Who do I think I am trying to wear high-heeled stripper shoes?) I had a pair of size 12 jeans I found deep in the bowels of my closet from another time and place when I could wear a size 12.  I put my outfit together and have to admit I was feeling pretty good.  My new ruffle-y shirt hid most of my rolls and my new stripper shoes made me feel like a runway model.  (A plus-size runway model but a runway model never the less.)  I couldn't walk very well in my stripper shoes but dad-gum it if I wasn't going to put in the effort.
Now, you're probably thinking...how could you feel good about yourself when you are wearing a size 12 and are still one and half-ton Tilly?  To that I just say, because in July, I was wearing a size 22 and ready to lay in the corner in the fetal position and suck my thumb.  It's true.  Just ask G-Pat.  So, a 12 is feeling pretty good right now.  

We go to the restaurant and have a great time with everyone.  But after the dinner, G-Pat and I have to get home to the hell-yuns and relieve the babysitter.  We head upstairs to the valet and G-Pat says he forgot something downstairs and has to go back.  So, I tell him I will happily wait for him on the couch in the lobby because I can hardly walk to the car in my stripper shoes much less back down the two hundred stairs and back up again.  While he was gone, a very nice and most likely inebriated man came up to me and asked why was I sitting all alone and who was I waiting for?  I told him my husband would be right back and that he just ran down stairs for a quick second.  He said...get this..."You mean, he left you up here all by yourself?  Shame on him.  Shame on him.  If you were with me, I would never leave you alone."  My first thought was...that's kind of creepy but my second thought was...Holy cow, I think I just got hit on.  Now, it's been about a hundred years since I was last hit on by someone other than G-Pat.  So, I wasn't really sure if that's what was happening or not.  But I asked G-Pat when he came back and he assured me, yes, that indeed, the guy was hitting on me.  I was kind of excited.  I won't lie.  Sure, G-Pat hits on me all the time but I have to admit, I'm easy when it comes to him.  I'm easy just not cheap.  That's what I always say.  Now, I was feeling really good.  All of this hard work and I'm getting a little love from the male species. Even if he was most likely inebriated. 
So, we walk outside to the valet and I decide I'm going to drive us home since I can't drink.  I go to get in the car and my stripper shoe heel gets stuck on the bottom of my jeans as I lift my leg to get in the car.  I lose all balance and totally take a digger right there in the valet line.  I banged my elbow into the car door opening and it immediately started swelling.  I thought I broke my arm.  G-Pat reaches over the seat to try to help me along with the valet guy and I manage to get up and slide into the car.  G-Pat says, "who falls getting IN a car?"  Um, that would be me.  I do that.  I told him, "nothing like falling flat on your ass to deflate your ego and bring you back to reality." 

By the way, I had my arm x-rayed on Monday and it's not broken but it does look like someone took a baseball bat to my right elbow.   Now, I really have to keep fighting the fat so I can get out of these size 12 jeans and learn how to properly walk in high-heeled stripper shoes.