This past Saturday my husband's first cousin once removed got married. (His cousin's daughter, which is what that would be, right?) I had an absolutely great time, and I think the girls did too, despite being up too late and being D-O-N-E by the end of the night.
But, oh my goodness, I woke up Sunday morning feeling like a young coed who can't handle her rum. And I didn't even have any rum. Or vodka, for that matter. But maybe ten glasses of Coke start to have the same hangover effect? At least none of it came back up. It was mostly in the throbbing head kind of way.
And my body, oh how it ached. Which, of course, has nothing to do with me getting older and everything to do with what a workout dancing all night is. Swinging a four-year-old around and holding a two-year-old while rockin' all night is amazing strength training, and the dancing itself is great cardio. (Stop laughing, it's totally true.)
But I'll be honest. At this wedding of young-ins (the couple getting married are early twenties), I was keenly aware of being a not-as-young-mother-of-two-children. Which I am totally okay with. The only thing they really have that I don't is the potential to party all night and not wake up feeling like they were hit by a truck. And flat stomachs minus the stretch marks. And naturally perky boobs. (Damn.)
Really, I would much rather be this thirty-year-old lady than go back to who I was at twenty-one. Mostly. No, I really am a much happier and healthier person today than I was back then. Plus, with age comes wisdom. So I'm totally wiser.
And I wouldn't trade where I am and who I have around me for all the youthful bodies in the world. Ever.