If you spend an extended amount of time with me, one thing will become glaringly obvious.
I am a child.
I can bring my game when I need to; fold my napkin in my lap, use the correct fork, sip my tea, clap appropriately……but to know me is to know that underneath it all I am an inappropriate hot mess.
And I fart.
Tonight I am rolling off of a girls weekend filled with Neil Diamond cover bands, deep conversations, not-so-deep conversations, wine, cheese, chocolate and too little sleep. Those weekends are good. And needed.
If you haven’t had one in a while call your girlfriends up now. Call them! It doesn’t have to be a fancy weekend, or expensive weekend, book a night at the Holiday Inn, grab a bucket of chicken, a cheap bottle of wine, and talk in your comfy pajamas.
We don’t talk anymore. We do, we text, we post.
Truth reveals itself over talk.
And chicken wings.
I spent a weekend in close quarters with my besties; eating chicken wings and brie, drinking chardonnay and pruning in the hot tub. Ironically, I during this time I forget how to sip my tea. I don’t care which fork is correct. And neither do my friends; which is a good thing.
Because day two of chicken wings and chardonnay leads to gastro distress. Distress that you can’t blame on the dog because no one brought a dog. Distress that when it’s quiet at 7:30 in the morning and your besties hear you toot from the bathroom, it is followed by five minutes of belly laugh.
Farts are funny. Finding friends that share in your seventh grade boy humor is priceless. Go gather your gassy gals and settle down for a weekend.
And chicken wings are still delicious.