Margaritas & Sweatpants


There’s the unknown when you’re invited to a friend’s house for the first time. Just come for a strawberry margarita, she says. It’s 40 degrees in late April. There’s still snow on the deck. And she is standing in her kitchen making fruity cocktails. 

I’m going and no one can stop me. 

I decide this has the potential for a date night. With a little work, my husband might realize I’m not always in sweatpants with my hair in a ponytail. I can see it already – me and him, him and me (me especially), youthful in the light of our friend’s kitchen. 

First I flat iron my hair but see this provides a straight-on view of my roots. So I curl massive pieces of hair around my face. Look over here, far left and far right, people. Leave the gray for everyday life in my own kitchen. Tonight, we are making new friends and liquefying strawberries. 

I pull on my favorite pair of jeans. I pull them off. Check the tag. They are indeed my fat pair and they are indeed longs. But I can see my ankles now, which weren’t on display last fall. A little study in the mirror and I see the problem. My backend has grown an inch upward and outward. Never mind, tall boots and a fluffy sweater at the waist and I look fine. ish. 

I go one more and find some crusty mascara to set off my eyes, one of which failed its driving test last year. 

We hit the road. The kids are thrilled. They have detected they are going to be with their mother but she has clearly checked out and will do little more than keep them alive. They will light matches and run with scissors. And she will be flipping her big hair at the far side of the room, winking at them good-naturedly and shooing them along. 

They see from their father’s ratty t-shirt that he’s still very much on the radar. When they get to the new house they will memorize the floor plan to always be out of his eyesight and earshot.

We arrive at our friend’s house. She said 6 p.m. We get there by 5:50. I have never been on time anywhere at any time. I feel anxious. This is all wrong. 


“Drive around the block a few times,” I say. “It’s rude to show up early, especially for the first time (in my life).”


The kids screech in protest when we pass by the house of freedom.



Finally, it’s a decent 6:01 pm and we pull in.



“Hello! Sorry we’re late!” I call.



“What. are . you . wearing?” is the reply. I look up to find three couples. All the women in sweatpants and ponytails. In the kitchen light, they look a lot like I did all month.



“You look good,” one says to me.



“Too good,” says another.



What have I done? I think.



They start elbowing each other. I am not sure what is happening but the gal not in sweatpants is now undergoing a hazing.



“What? Is this date night?” they howl.



“Perhaps,” I hedge. My date has already ditched me and is across the room with the guys.



They hand me a cocktail. They admire the curls. They wait.



Finally, I cave.



“Does anyone have a pair of sweats I can borrow?” I ask. “These jeans are about to split.”



But they won’t comply. They are going to keep me uncomfortably beautiful all night and poke endless fun at me while Tim never looks twice. But it’s fine. I was a little in love with these gals before tonight. Now? I’m totally in love.

4 Comment

  1. Love it! Those are the best girl parties!

    1. So true!! LOL

  2. I know this hostess…and when she says sweat pants – she means sweat pants! Lesson learned! 🙂

    1. I learned my lesson!!!

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