Florida Track Suits

Last night we celebrated a good friend’s 40th. Stacy’s husband Brett is *way* older than us. If 40 is the new 30, then I’m just an infant. Even though my body feels 92 today.

A group of us went to the Barley Mow in Stittsville for dinner & bevies. Going into the evening I figured it would be relatively low key. I should have known better. Expect the unexpected.

On my way there I got a text from Stacy, “we’re in the back corner.” I arrive before the others do. Stace, Brett and I catch up for a bit. I’m happy to have a bit of time with just them.

Dani and James are the next to arrive followed by a couple of other friends. The waitress arrives to take our dinner orders. “I’ll have a vodka water,” Dani says. Aaaaah, my girl is back!

I’m not even finished my food before I hear “who wants a shooter?” Oh sweet geesuz. Put your helmet on. It’s gonna be a long one.

The first one comes and it’s seriously like swallowing paint thinner. The kind of mix if you lit a lighter and blew on it, flames would shoot across the table. Turpentine. Fire breathing dragon.

“Can we get a round of Florida Track Suits please?”

After the last round I need to look this up. Orange vodka. Sourpuss. Redbull. Ok, I can do this.

Oh my. It’s a licking-the-glass-can’t-get-enough-of-the-yummy-deliciousness kinda shooter. Yup, another round is ordered before the waitress can ask if we need anything.

Next think you know it’s closing time, we are arguing amongst ourselves about who is paying for what and the waitress is calling us cabs. We decide the smart thing to do is to keep partying (cause we’re still 18) and head back to Chez Thuot.

After some dancing (aaahhh, why am I the only one???), lots of laughs and some tears (dammit! I’m the only one again), Dani and I decide we should go for a hot tub…at 3:30 am. No one said we were the sharpest knives in the drawer.

Off she goes to grab us suits. When she doesn’t come back, Stace goes to check on her. “Good luck on all your adventures” is all Stace can make out.

You know it’s time to go home when. Damn you Florida Track Suits! You won that round.


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