There have been very few times that I’ve relished being in my late thirties, so please just let me have this moment. OK? You see, last week, I was at the salon, and for the first time in a decade, the event produced a happy ending... albeit not the same kind a guy would have.
But… to tell you the moral of this tale, I have to tell you the story first.
Now that we’re only a few short months away from the wedding, my stylist and I have a work plan: monthly facials, monthly haircuts and highlights, and pedicures every five weeks. It’s a lot like my normal regimen, except that the costs are considered “wedding expenses.” Think Enron meets Vera Wang. At any rate, should all go well, I will look about 38 instead of 40. But that’s the thing about goals… they should be measurable and achievable.
If it sounds shallow, that’s because it is. However, it’s important to plan the work then work the plan.
That said, that’s not the point of this blog post. The point is that, while I was at the salon, a wedding party came in to do a dry run of the bride and bridesmaids’ hair. They were all in their early twenties and heading to the bachelorette party immediately after their appointment. Intrigued, my stylist (who is about my age) and I listened to their agenda, which went something like this:
3. Drink more
4. Rave club
5. Drink some more
7. Pass out
8. Politely skip brunch the next day (this is implied)
I have to admit, I was slightly jealous and said to myself, “Self… there’s not one line on her face. There’s not one ounce of fat on her body. And she will not be standing at her wedding reception around ten o’clock at night… exhausted… wondering if it’s rude to leave and get some sleep.”
And that’s when it dawned on me; two emotions cannot co-exist in the same space. Instead of being jealous, I should be happy for her and wish her nothing but the best… the same sentiments I want others to have for DB and me. And not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because if there’s anything I’ve learned as I approach 40 -it’s that karma is unkind.
Besides, I was that bride and I’ve been that bridesmaid. I’ve been that girl at the wedding du jour… listening to the music du jour… drinking the shot du jour… in the bridesmaid's dress du jour. You know the dress I’m talking about… the several hundred dollar one that your friend, the bride, picked because, "It’s so pretty yet practical that you can actually use it again..." the dress du jour that I always feel like wearing to the brunch du jour… with the hang over du jour… just so I can say, "You're RIGHT! This one is different from the other forty that I own. I actually CAN wear it again.” But I digress.
The moral to this tale is this: While I could fake being sage and loosely quote Aesop who said, “Although sour grapes make a bitter but fine whine, the more fully matured ones make a truly enjoyable drink.” I’d rather quote Meatloaf instead and tell you that, “A wasted youth is better by far than a wise and productive old age.” Party on young bride. Have a blast. Love with reckless abandon and enjoy the ride - even if it takes you to a salon twenty years from now... where you're eavesdropping with your stylist… slightly jealous of a young wedding party. Just remember to wish that bride the same thing I wish for you - nothing but sheer bliss.
Talk to you next week.