I love getting messages from L. Straight and to the point: “Girls’ night out. Be there.” And even though my energy level is low and I feel partied out, I go. L has an infectious smile and a slightly raspy voice that she only uses in love. And she has a great dancing body that gets everyone revved up and moving. She does not mind stuffing her car with women who don’t drive and don’t have any other outlets but her. She does not mind herding girls through a modest Astoria building into a very large space where it is Thursday and houkas are free for girls.
We love being girls. A bit wrinkly, a bit jiggly, a bit over 35, but we are still girls. Some are married, some are mothers and some are both. But for the night, everyone is single and ready to party, thanks to L and her smile.
Partying in your thirties and forties is a little bit different than your twenties. The phones ring but the jealous callers on the other side are usually the kids who don’t understand why their mothers are checking in into lounges and posting statuses and pics of large smoke clouds and languish eyes. Horror of horrors, their mothers are sexy!!! And getting more likes and comments than they do.
I don’t have Facebook anymore so I am a happy camper. It would be nice to update my status every five minutes but it is even nicer to laugh until my mouth hurts and to feel woozy from all that orange smoke. As my friend put it “Our farts will smell nice tomorrow”. Not that girls fart but you know, just in the improbable case it happens.
In a predominantly male environment, our group is Queen. We eat, egg the dancing girls on, stuff singles in each-others cleavages and pretty much let go of tomorrow. I don’t speak a word of Aarabic, but I understand shimmying, ululating, sliding and backing that booty up. Belly dancing New York style.
Of course, they have Aarabic coffee (a.k.a Turkish, Albanian or Greek coffee). And of course we have dregs readers. Three of them to be exact. One of them tells me I will marry a millionaire, another tells me my old flame A is thinking of me and wants to return to me, and the other one tells me that I will embark on a very, very long road. All agree I will get a raise at work and will lose weight in the following six months.
The other girls can’t wait. The other lovely L drinks one cup and turns it upside down, only to be told that she has no turning talent whatsoever and should leave it to the experts to turn. The same experts tell her to drink another one and let them turn it for her. This time it comes out perfectly. Ohh she is shivering, either from caffeine or excitement we can’t tell. But it is all good
Even the head waitress comes over with her lovely smile and shyly extends her perfectly turned saucer. She wants a read. She gets a read which is apparently very accurate because her eyes have become larger than the saucer she keeps holding like a holy relic. After all, her destiny is there.
Dancing starts again. Girls shake, writhe and contort their heaving bosoms to the distress of males everywhere. After all these are not virginal and shy, these are full bosoms that have nurtured children, given men heart attacks and engulfed countries. These bosoms know how to push the hips away and make thick thighs almost irresistible. Almost.
Our friend L is dying to get her reading, but her cup is not there. The busboy has whisked her fortune away together with the rest of the dirty dishes and remnants of dinner. She becomes upset and demands her saucer. That saucer. The poor busboy brings her a clean one (English is obviously not his first, second or even last language) and her distress level goes through the roof. All that caffeine for nothing. Another friend actually goes through the dirty dishes in the kitchen and returns triumphant. All is well. The destiny has been found.
Yes all is well that ends well. Both Ls are entertained and we can go home now. Our lives our waiting and everyone is going to work tomorrow. Hopefully some remnants of girls will remain.