Sign of the Times

My mother’s group had been trying to settle on a night to get together to go out for drinks. Five foreign dignitaries can more easily schedule a summit. Finally Sacha suggested we see the Sex in the City movie on Monday night. And despite the endless email cycles to solidify a plan up until then, it suddenly stuck and we were all game.

Of course, plagued as this house has been with pink eyes, hacking coughs, sore throats, and utter exhaustion, I surprised myself by making the grown-up decision to stay home to try and get better.

This morning at the preschool Parent’s Day breakfast I asked Sacha how it was. As silly and Rocky Horror-esque  as it’s been that women everywhere are dolling themselves up to see the movie, part of me thought it’d be kinda fun to do it.

You know, pay homage to the days when an impulsive purchase of La Mer eye cream didn’t make you feel guilty about the semester of college you’d be denying your child. The days when you ran your fingers through your blown-dry hair and smelled the fancy salon product you’d put in it, not day-old spit up. Those bygone days of buying skinny jeans that didn’t require you to wear a corset over your jiggly Mummy tummy.

No, Sacha said. They didn’t dress up.

But, she offered brightly, Mary did sneak a bottle of wine into the theater. And the two of them (the only two who managed to make it out that night) polished it off during the movie. Drinking the wine out of sippy cups.