Every year (except one in the last 11 years), BFF and I go to Banff for May Long Weekend. Originally, we went there for a friend’s, let’s call her Red, 30th birthday. Red and some of her other friends and family got there on the Friday and partied very hard, then they took part in what’s called the Slush Cup (which has something to do with skiing at Sunshine on the hill’s last open weekend. We don’t participate because it would get in the way of our plans to nap), so when we got there on Saturday, Red and friends were ready to be mellow. We, however, were not.
This weekend was the first weekend I’d been apart from the boys since X and I split up. I was 29, single, and away from home and responsibility. I was not interested in having a barbeque in someone’s condo. We were there for one night and we were going to sow some oats.
Oh boy, did some oats get sown. We drank, we partied, we met new people, we carried on until all hours. To be perfectly truthful, we did not even make it back to our hotel that night. We went out for dinner, we went to a couple of pubs, and we even went to an actual nightclub. We somehow managed to run into a bunch of guys from our hometown who were on a weekend-long stag. And so we continued to party with them until all hours. And, golly, we had fun!
The next year looked similar. This time we took Red with us and at one point she ended up in an abandoned shopping cart with some guy racing her down the street.
As the years went on we started to skip the nightclub and spend more time at the pubs meeting people and conducting social experiments. Sometimes we’d take little plastic toys (like army men) with us and leave them in odd places. One time we pretended we needed cue-cards in order to talk to men (“Hello” make eye contact, “my name is Alice.” Smile). We were going to pretend we were on a stagette once, but there was only two of us and we thought that would look slightly pathetic.
And we can look back at the people we were and giggle at what good times we had. But now we manage to make it back to our own hotel every single night. And the partying aspect doesn’t hold the same draw that it once did. We much prefer nice wine and fancy dinners to pub food and sugary coolers.
But, even still, I’m not ready to call it a day. I’m not ready to settle down and just be mellow and old. Luckily, after a lovely and relaxing weekend with my BFF, filled with hiking and napping and wine and SO MUCH food, I can come home. To the place where I share the same sense of humour with a couple of sixteen-year-olds. Where, even though I’m their mom and they have total respect for that, we can practice our secret handshakes and giggle together every time someone says “duty” and wrestle around on the living room floor and imitate the characters from Saturday Night Live. Where I’m lucky enough not to have to act my age.
To sum up: BFF and I have fun wherever we go and whatever we do. And it’s always nice to come home.