The freaks come out at night

Apparently, this is a well known fact.

I was oblivious to this fact since the last time I was out at night was probably to give birth.

It has taken me a week to recover from the night I went out and became one of those freaks, but now that I've got my mind right, I'm ready to share with you. Hopefully this will serve as a guide to you other mommas who spent nearly a year pregnant, nearly a year nursing, and what seems like a lifetime sober. Don't be like me. Take it slow because chances are you have officially become a light weight.

My night out was designed to be innocent enough. Dinner and a downtown mini celebration with friends, nothing too dramatic or over the top. It was my first time out since I weaned #3 and I wanted to take it slow.

However, combine a recently liberated (the girls are no longer milk sacks) stay-at-home mom, a trustworthy babysitter (aka Mimi), two single friends, an unlimited supply of boys willing to buy drinks, and a bar where no one knows me and you, my friend, have a recipe for disaster.

For some reason Blame It (on the alcohol) has been playing repeatedly in my head for the past seven days. I honestly don't remember very much from the night on the town, but I do know that I spent an inordinate amount of time dancing (if you wanna call it that b/c it could more accurately be described as rump shakin') with 1) someone twice as wide as me, 2) someone I was almost twice as tall as, and 3) myself.

I also recall that BFF and I gave a pretty good rendition of Montell Jordan's This is How We Do It to a large group of innocent passersby. And, for the record all of the grimacing was totally unnecessary b/c I can sing better than Beyonce.

I would also like to take a moment to congratulate myself b/c I refrained from one thing that I usually make it a point to accomplish on nights such as these: I did not puke! Go me!

In my past life (as a drunken ho bag) I would drink myself into oblivion and then puke my scrambled little brains out. But, I've kissed those days goodbye. I am now certain that I actually can hold my liquor and that it is not necessary to make love to the porcelain god (or the trash can, or the side of the building, or the metro) in order to call it a good night.

Really, the best nights are to be had next to (or possibly on top of) the bar as opposed to under it, and at this age I think it's realistic to say adios to chugging and shooters. Besides since I spend most of my days in a sober state of barely controlled hysteria a coupla glasses of wine are enough to put me over the edge.

So next time you have the occasion to visit a bar and you see the slightly overweight, trying-her-hardest-in-her-mom-jeans chick dancing like a preschooler to the old school 90's jams, give the lady a break, it's probably been a while.