I turned 31 yesterday.
I feel as though I should be saying 21. But no. It’s 31. Every year, I take a moment to think on where I am, how I’ve grown as a person, and other important reflective whatnots. I turned thirty last year, and in that moment, made a resolute decision to stop fighting the notion of the big 3-0. And the entire idea of aging. To stop letting mere numbers drag me down into the mire of self criticism and ridiculous angst-of-wrinkle acquirement and bodily changes. I had a few younger friends give me a hard time, but honestly, I’d much rather be where I am: On my own path in my own life. Age means nothing to me, if not a simple fact that I have, in fact, reached a new path to a new level of maturity. I’m celebrating that I’m most definitely a year wiser, and still growing in the process that is life. I’m my own person. And I’m just now starting to realize who that person is. It doesn’t sound like much, but I think that’s a lot for one to proclaim. So, I raise the proverbial glass to the official journey that is the thirties.
Deep thoughts aside, it’s a birthday. Everyone has them. So I don’t make a big deal out of mine. With three kids, I’m kind of over it. I’m all, “Yay. I’m still alive. Go meeee!” I do, however, tend to milk my upcoming date for all it’s worth, starting in October September. I go all year without any gifts. ALL YEAR. Do you realize how torturous that is for a child? DO YOU? So much so, that I vowed to never do such a thing to my own. {enter my only planned child, Emerson whose birthday is in mid January. Whoops.} So, ever so faithfully every year, I take it upon myself to make up for that shortcoming in my adult years. I’m all, “Jamin. I want this for my birthday. Can I buy this for my birthday? Oh. I also need this for my birthday.” He never has to purchase my gifts, because I’m pretty darn good at going above and beyond on shamelessly picking out things for myself. Happy Birthday to meeeeeeeeee!
So much for that maturity thing, right? MEH.
I spent this weekend at the beach. A much needed girls weekend, with an awesome friend who is getting married. {congratulations, and muchas gracias Amber!} I slept in without children bouncing atop me at whatever hour they deemed appropriate, enjoyed a few meals out undisturbed, and HELLO outlet stores. (Hello wonderful husband who kept the kiddos and allowed me to do such crazy, wild, unimaginable things.)
On the first night, we went out to Lulu’s. For those of you who do not know: A family restaurant on the coast of south Alabama owned by none other than the fantabulous Jimmy Buffet’s sister. Its one of my faves. I think it’s everyone’s fave. But being a late December night, it was quite desolate. I had never seen it as such, and it was quite an experience for the seasoned Lulu-er, to park in the frontmost parking spot, and parade into the establishment as if it were a local Chilis. So down we sat, with a dwindling band, and a few other patrons at their own tables. We were thoroughly enjoying our girl time, along with the idea of an empty hot spot, when cue record scratch of a sound effect interrupting the previous softly piped Girls Just Wanna Have Fun for your reading soundtrack pleasure:
Up he sauntered, ever so inebriated.
You know. That guy.
“Can I sit here?” He leaned over and spoke to one of our accomplices, the unfortunate Megan who happened to have an empty seat beside her.
As if she had a choice.
“I guess.” She responded, helpless to stop him. And the next five minutes were the saddest of a drunken conversational attempt I have ever experienced. At one point, drunken Lulu’s guy was so sad, I almost tried to offer him some of our chips and dip, and send him off to the next table filled with fifty year olds with a butt smack. But I knew he would take it as encouragement to keep trying at our table, and not a go-get-em-tiger-now-stop-bothering-us…so I refrained. I had dismal flashbacks to the socially awkward stages of high school, where I was trying to be nice to the extra awkward person at the table out of fear that they might do something scary later. We practically carried on our own conversation while he sat, and eventually he dismissed himself, after we had all flashed our bling. Repeatedly. And could breathe a sigh of relief. And laugh hysterically… Because even if we weren’t all totally married…not so much gonna ever would happen.
And we were left alone. Until about five minutes later, when drunken guy’s friend arrived at our table, and crouched in our faces, with his bottle of beer, accessorized to the hilt donning his spiffy sun visor and bright yellow safari shirt. Slurred words were bestowed upon us, and he asked why we “made his friend mad.” {with a bit less finesse and a lot more grunt with cruder language and other fun filled additions} We proclaimed, repeatedly there was not a problem, and that we simply wanted to enjoy our meal. So after swaying awkwardly over us for one moment much too long, he left.
…Only to return. And ask us for a favor: to turn around to the boat behind us with his pouting friend in it, and simultaneously flip him a bird. Seriously people? This is not the Flora Bama. This is LuLu’s. Get. Lost. Not to mention, that if original Inebriated Ian was pouting on a boat, after being “rejected” at a family resaurant, he may be all, “Good bye, cruel world!” and jump into the water after tying a small brick to his waist.
I turned to see a gigantic Yacht parked at the deck, and wondered what millionaire the two sketchy randoes had murdered. We repeatedly told him no. But unfortunate visor safari guy just kept talking, and all the while, I was seeing visions of 48 Hour Mystery specials in my head, about five women who ventured to the beach in the off season and were never seen again. He even offered us an “innocent boat ride.” So I tried to kick him down for the final time, with a “Between the five of us, we have like, 8 kids. So…” and waved my hand to cue the idea of general disinterest (Which was a lie, because we only had five kids but I was counting dogs in desperate attempt to lose dorkwad dave and his awesome cool outfit selection)
“Oh! I have two kids!” Clueless Carl was super excited about our new commonality, and I watched our party shrink back at their loss of hope, and stare uninterested at their plates, while Visor Victor proceeded to tell us all about his children whose ages he currently could not remember. And that was the part that made me sad, and I was now officially ready to end the ill fated convo.
The manager finally came to our rescue, a few moments later, and asked Drunken Dan to leave us in peace. And that was the end of our unfortunate encounter. We made sure no one followed us to Walmart, and then back to the beach house. I half expected to turn around and see the yacht on the road with wheels, following us all the way home a-la spongebob.
At least we know, that in the land of minivans, degrading breast pumps that make you feel like a milking cow, and piles of dirty diapers… that we still got it. Even in the off season.
Happy 31st birthday to me. And may there be many more random family restaurant drunken encounters for me and my mom esteem in the future.
To 40 and beyond. Woot.
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