The after-party looks a whole lot different at 48 than it did at 18, Reader. Back then it was all “well, now what sort of extended fun are we going to have after the dance??!!” party, and extra-curricular excitement was planned.
Back in my day, it was some hotel or fitness club or something I don’t quite remember** with a pool and a sauna and a spa that we went to after all the dancing was done. And then you got a few hours of sleep, jumped in some cars and went to Cedar Point for a day of amusement park rides. Because 18.
**I honestly cannot recall exactly where we went, but I do remember being embarrassed about getting in a swimsuit because FAT – which what I wouldn’t give to go back in time and tell 18-year-old me she was not fat at all at 120 lbs., and looked perfectly great.
Forty-eight’s afterparty was slightly different. After my last guest left last night around 12:30 or 1:00 a.m. – something like that – I slathered up my poor hurting feet in prescription-strength arteritis-gel, took a dozen Aleve’s, got a super-duper large glass of water for the bedside and conked out. To awaken at 11, decide that was just too early, and rolled back over for another several hours of sleep, with Gussy as the softest, purry-est pillow in all the land.
We finally forced ourselves out of bed around 2:30 p.m. ~should feel more shame than I do~ because it was just getting ridiculous. And then I remembered the best part about a party IS the after party.
In the kitchen.
A mish-mash of leftovers coupled with a nice cuppa hot coffee in a quiet and somewhat cleaned up house. Cold sloppy joe on a Kings Hawaiian bun, a few leftover cocktail shrimp, a piece of cold cheesecake. That’s my kind of after party.
The 18 year olds will get it. One day.
I’m ready for a nap.