Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Buffoonery


buf·foon·er·y

bəˈfo͞onərē/
noun
noun: buffoonery; plural noun: buffooneries
  1. 1.
    behavior that is ridiculous but amusing.


Well, that pretty much sums up last weekend.

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."
We discussed his sentiment in an effort to clarify it amongst ourselves. And we came up with a very simple explanation.

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.
And ride horses.
How often do grown women have the chance to just play?
Not often enough. And that, my dear Mike, is precisely WHY WE LOSE OUR MINDS!
It is actually really quite fun.
 Mr. Musky talks about how fun it might be to combine girls weekend with boys fishing week.
Yes - I said week. We only get a weekend. Those boys get a week. That might be why we get a little crazy. All that packing it into two days and all.
We make a lot of friends on girls weekend. There's Leif at bar stop #2. That's his surprised face. He was surprised at something somebody said.
And Eddie. Who thanked us for coming into his bar. And I quote: "You ladies were a joy." Luckily for Eddie, he was stop number two. Not three.
There's the fabulous biker girls at stop #3, who literally paraded a tribe of beautiful people into the bar,

and their guys, who we apparently stumbled across three years ago. But that time, they were in duck blinds, and we were on the pontoon boat.
Speaking of which, we kicked off day two in classic style.
A six hour tour on the chain. On our ride out, there was more talking and plenty of laughs.

At one point, I sucked in a big, deep breath, and thanked God for blessing me with such good friends from different walks of life. I told each and every girl I love her.
Then blasted some Beastie Boys, and opened the stage for dancing.
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.
We laughed until we cried.
We told stories that made us cry.
We laughed again until we cried.
If it seems that I'm being vague, that is true. There are special moments with these girls that the five of us will hold closely. Emotionally raw storytelling until the skies darkened and forced us to bring it back to shore,
juxtaposed by buffoonery that literally doubled us over in hysterics.
I woke up with a sore back, thanks to all the laughing. When's the last time you laughed so much and so hard your muscles protested?

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.
XOXO,
Jen

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