Last night I ended up at a bar. It was kind of planned. I guess it was always a given considering it was the only place left to go once the restaurant closed.

A smarter version of me would have bid them all adieu at this point, (my husband included) and gone and relished some time alone. I mean we were staying a 5 star resort, with no kids, fully paid for. I doubt it acutally gets much better. But to leave would have been rude and to be honest, the drinks were sinking oh so easily.

So we all (14 of us) continued on. The joint was packed. Live music, lots and lots of pretty young thangs (both male and female) and one particularly loose girl in our party who got told she would no longer be served within 10 minutes of arriving.

One thing I had forgotten about was the bar service dance. See, the last time I had to do that, I was probably a good 11 years younger, had less gray hairs and didn’t have glasses that made me look like a mono-browed Nana Mouskouri. I also hadn’t at that point, pushed 3 kidlets out of my loins and therefore didn’t take people out when I walked by them with my hips.

In fact, last time I had to go the bar amid 56 other people desperate for a vodka lemon and lime, I was in my early 20’s and more than likely had my tits pushed up and out within an inch of their lives plus had the confidence that comes with knowing you are going to get noticed. I think I now know how all those guys felt when they used to be ignored, whilst we got immediate service. Shithouse and indignant.

So it comes as no surprise that I wasn’t the darling of the bar scene last night. For one I wasn’t wearing a Lycra, leopard print bodysuit, with holes cut out of the back, which apparently is the Cougars fashion statement of choice these days. They (the cougars) were kind of out in force and doing quite nicely with the big headed steroid abusers who were hanging off of them.
But to stand at the bar and be passed over 5 times, it all became very apparent that I am now Demis Rousses’ twin. Just give me my Mumu so I can get on with it.

Luckily I only had to do the drink run once yet somehow I constantly had a drink in my hand. Just as all the guys were crying with laughter at something none of us women could understand, the ugly lights went on, the security guards descended and suddenly, it was all over.

The night made me realise that a) I am happy to sit at home most nights, having a little shandy on the couch or on the deck where I can hear what’s being said to me and I can serve myself without fear of rejection, b) the best night out is rarely worth the vomit inducing hangover it causes the next day and c) kids will not care that you are practically dying from self-inflicted sickness. They will still want to be fed every 20 minutes, have a DVD changed every 14 minutes and have a new question regarding an ant’s thorax that must be answered satisfactorily until they will leave you alone.

Now, Berocca, Paracetamol and a shitload of water are about to have a party in my stomach...