POB (partner of blogger) and I went out on Saturday night with two couples after about six months of juggling schedules.

One of the couples are the parents of our son’s best friend (BestFriendCouple, aka BFC) and the other couple are the parents of our son’s betrothed (FutureWifeCouple, aka FWC).  Forgive the identification in relation to children, but let’s be honest here, we are now someone’s Mom or Dad.  For at least half of our waking hours, our identities are in direct relation to our progeny. It is what it is.  Life never asks if you like what has happened, it just dares you to deal with it.

You may remember FWC from prior blog entries.  The dad is the Gentle Giant, until our kids get too serious and then I will start wearing body armor.  Until then, life is good.

POB and I decided to walk part of the way to dinner, along the Hudson River so we could feel the breeze should one arrive and give momentary relief to blazing hot and humid New York City.  As we walked along we saw the preparations for the next day’s triathlon in which people (of questionable mental acuity) run, bike and swim in forecasted 93 degree weather.  And the swim is in the Hudson River.  (By the way, if any skimmers in the Gulf are idle, we could use them to get the gross garbage and scum off the water’s surface.)  There were signs for the line-ups depending on your skill set:  Elite men under 35, Elite senior men, etc.  As we walked, I was looking for my category should I ever enter such a race:  “Women Far Too Decrepit For Middle Age” or “Those Desiring A Watery Demise“.

Apparently, I won’t even get a slot even as a “Hail, Mary” contestant.  I’m ok with it.  I will live longer for not swimming in the Hudson River, even with a wet suit.  There are beautiful bodies of water with a vast, healthy ecosystem (until we find out about them and then ruin them), there are bodies of water with foundering ecosystems (the Gulf, for example), there are dead bodies of water (one or more of the Great Lakes) and then there is killer water which will destroy and corrode anything that dares enter its watery slaughterhouse.  THAT, that is the Hudson River.  Hint:  it has a menacing brown color.

Because we are New Yorkers, we were hungry after our walk, EVEN AFTER discussing whether a life form in the Hudson River could mutate enough to survive nuclear holocaust and repopulate the world in a crazy-horror-flick-come-true scenario.  We NYers are a hearty people.

We arrive early at the restaurant so we can pretend that we are not middle-aged and possibly flirt with, and coo at, each other.  Since our son may read this one day and I already cannot afford the therapy that having two moms will cost, I will stop at this.

Lucky for our son, FWC arrived.  Wife of FWC (WFWC) looked very stylish (she is not yet middle-aged so it was ok).  I think she was wearing jeans that are like leggings.  On her, it worked.  But for everyone else, DO NOT TRY THAT AT HOME.  It could lead to unsightly consequences.  The Gentle Giant, also H of FWC (HFWC) is a terrific guy and bravely ordered an unpronounceable drink.  WFWC tried one that sounded like, if you didn’t like it, it could also be a spa treatment.  I was eying the cucumber slice garnish and thinking about the laugh wrinkles POB mentioned in our abortive attempt to flirt and coo.  Note to readership: “I love your laugh wrinkles” does not put one in any “mood” worth having.  Just saying.

Shortly thereafter, BFC arrive.  The husband (HBFC), who has been busy being “Dad” these last few months, gravitated to HFWC for manly, over-8 year-old talk.  Soon they were drinking beer.  Which is to say that it is primal that men, in the company of other men, eschew foofy drinks with unpronounceable names in favor of BEEHHHH (beer) or possibly even LAGGGEH (Lager).  The foofy drinks are just to show off one’s feminine side and gain points with your wife’s friends.  I still think that lesser men in the presence of four strong women would have stayed with the foofy drinks.   So, bravo to these two husbands (who are today shepherding their children to assorted events while the wives relax or go to the gym, G-d bless them).

So, WBFC and I haven’t had much time over this last year to chat.  And we sit opposite each other at the table.  We are both very opinionated and believe that everyone is entitled to hear our opinions — from the what-were-you-thinking-when-you-got-that-tattoo to why we are living the dreams of our unionizing forebears even though we are not unionized and work long hours, etc.  Our upbringings are as strikingly similar as our backgrounds are diverse.  Totally awesome.

Then we all had too much inspiration and meaningful conversation. It was time to DISH on those whom we know in common.  So, four women between 40 and 46 (old enough to know better), started sentences with “omigod, can you believe . . . . ?“ in loud voices.  SOOOOOOO MUCH fun.  The boys were probably talking about hunting because they kept ordering BEEEEHHHH or LAGGGEH.

Having had two glasses of wine — my upward limit — the rest is a blur of delicious food and vicious conversation.  So much fun that I even forgot (until writing this entry) that POB mentioned my wrinkles.

What wrinkles?