The Old Gray Mare

She really ain't what she used to be. On Saturday, I rang in today's momentous occasion with The Crue (yeah, we were cool like that) from high school, and it took me until Monday evening to recover. 48 hours, y'all. And I didn't even drink all that much. The Iron Gut is no longer. It has been replaced by The Flabby Fish Belly That Is Sensitive to Rich Foods Soaked in Alcohol. I never got sick, per se, but I felt like crap on a crutch for a good while there, particularly on the drive home from Sand and Stonio the next day. In the white hot afternoon sun. Ouch.

But oh, did we have fun. The kind where your stomach hurts from laughing and you're still sore the next day. It's been officially decided that I have a mind like a steel trap, at least regarding all hijinx and petty crimes that may or may not have been committed by one or more members of said Crue, and if money was involved, I could probably win some kind of Supreme Savant of High School Memories contest. And I'm proud to say that of the 10 of us, everyone is still happily married, with 1-4 kids, and doing very well. As we were shutting down the place after dinner, a fellow diner, who I'm sure was glad to finally get the hell outta there, came over to the table to say, "Y'all sure have a lot of fun together!" Yes, we do. We did, and we do, and, Jeebus willing, we will continue to. But I'm thinking once a year is probably all my insides can handle.

And speaking of handling things, so far, at least in the 90 minutes I've been awake, I'm handling the being 40 thing pretty well. Olive and I have some adventures planned for the day (Peach is with the in-laws), and just for fun, I think I may make my first mammogram appointment as a birthday present to myself. How very middle-aged and responsible of me.