The girls descended, yet again, upon the peaceful shores of Echo Lake last Thursday night. I've mentioned this before, but Moby Mike's description of girls weekend will crack me up until the day I die. "They lose their minds. I mean, they just...lose their minds! I don't get it."
For seventy-two hours, we have no responsibilities to anyone but ourselves. We have no eagle-eyed husbands telling us to calm down and lower our voices, no mothers telling us to watch our mouths, no co-workers or employees from Human Resources taking inventory, no children staring wide-eyed and asking what's for dinner. Instead, we do whatever we want, clean up after one another (like a well-oiled machine, I might add), eat and drink what we want, when we want, and the best part? We talk. And talk. And talk and talk and talk. We talk about our husbands. Our hair. Our marriages. Our pasts. Our kids. Our parents, friends, pets, dreams, pet peeves, underwear, everything. Until wee hours of the night and all morning long, until it is finally time to be productive.
I forgot to mention...fashion isn't a large concern for the weekend festivities.
There was a little swimming, but only by one very brave, carefree soul. We cheered her on loudly. Then wrapped her in a big, warm quilt.
We ate dip when it made it's way into our mouths.
Sometimes it spilled.
So did the wine.
Let's revisit my wonderful husband's idea. Combine fishing week with girls weekend. Talk until two a.m. Wake up and gab until noon. Enjoy a cocktail at 1:00. Ride horses. Chat up strangers in bars, without using our inside voices. Have a love fest. Tell stories. Dance to '80s rap. Swim in frigid water. Eat dip. Spill dip. Return for more wine. Slosh wine. Cry with each other. Create buffoonery at the beach. Tell more stories.
Sorry, Babe. That leaves no time for fishing. We'll just continue to lose our minds on our own.