Overheard at Cirque Du Soleil

A preface: I've wanted to go to Cirque Du Soleil -- any Cirque Du Soleil -- for a long, long time. It rarely comes to Chicago and the last time I was in Vegas, we could barely afford to eat, let alone see that kind of show. Things are different now, Vegas was different. Not for any reason or for anyone else. But definitely for me.

Mack and I saw Cirque, mostly because it was playing in our hotel and because we are lazy and had very little interest doing research or reading reviews or anything like that. It was at the right time and -- this time -- was the right price, and so we saw Ka.

It was gorgeous. And I loved it. There were a few draggy points where people were doing cartwheels up a rotating wall (again, gawww) but overall, it was just so beautiful. Even with the guy down the row from me who rattled the ice in his empty giant plastic Cirque Du Soleil commemorative cup of Seabreeze or similar.

Speaking of that guy, he's the same one with the perm I heard this from as Mack and I squeezed past to our seats in the center of our row.

"That sister of yours I always thought she was gay?"

"My sister? Which one?!" This from a younger man, blond buzz cut, tall, skinnyish, t-shirt, as southern sounding as perm-and-ice guy.

"The big one."

"Her? Oh hell no! She slept with purty much every guy in our high school!"

"REALLY?" Shaking ice. "Huh."

These moments, from the highly costumed Asian tribal mid-air acrobatics to yee-har near the center aisle, is precisely why I'm convinced people keep coming back to this crazy ass city.

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Yes, I was in Vegas. No, I wasn't blogging.

I meant to. No, really. Seriously. Stop laughing. I honestly intended to pay the twenty bucks a day to keep you updated on all my hijinks in the first real vacation I've had on this side of single living and only the second I've had since *cough*fiveyears*cough*. But then I went to Vegas and inhaled all that second-hand smoke and got all relaxed by $8 bottles of beer and all overstimulated on the ding of slot machines and the lovely shh-shh of vinyl rubbing 22-year old ass just barely contained by said vinyl, and then...well, clearly it was ovahhh.

Not ovahhh as much as a fun and funny and sparkly and spendy long weekend with one of my best grrrls, Mack, for the wedding of one of my favorite guys (and by guys, I mean boyyyz, which is what I hear all the vinyl-assed kids in Vegas are saying these days).

We hit a show, had a great dinner, got some sun, and did more walking than one should on vacation.

I am sure this will lead you to ask: What is the appropriate number of pairs of shoes a respectable shoe whore should take to Vegas?

The answer's after the jump. More hijinks to follow. As soon as I find the pics of Mack in her brand new vinyl skirt.

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40 is no joke yo

I am not 40 yet. But I am just a few clicky-heel steps away from it.

 In fact, I was just adding to the creeping lines around my eyes the other day by whining (over the phone so no one would see the wrinkles but me, because I was (duh) staring into the mirror while I was talking) about how I will be 37 in a couple of weeks. I have this whole thing about identifying myself as being in my mid-30s, and I was wingeing about how 37 is clearly no longer within those bounds. I did the same thing in my late-20s and early 30s, so it is a loop I like to play over and over to my thoroughly bored but resilient grrrlfriends.

So...whining, wrinkles, late-30s. Not so funny. I will gleefully share way too many jokes about boob and hoo-hoo stuff. But gray hair and forehead scrunchies? Oh hell no.

The thing is, I feel happier, healthier, better  and (dare I say?) even hotter now -- even on the cusp of (shhht!) 37 -- than I have in years. Maybe even decades. I think it is because, like Oprah says (thanks, Oprah!), I know myself better now. I have been through enough stuff to really face who I am in trauma as well as in bliss, in partnerships and on my own, and in one year and out of another. Some of that comes with the head-shaking reality that I will probably never look anything but pregnant in an empire waist top and that I will always need to buy concealer in bulk. But just like I got OK with sleeping alone in my bed, not having a huge house filled with too many kids and not having bangs (alright, I am still trying to journal that one out), I know I can get OK with that stuff. Oh, and the number of years I've been on the planet, no matter how early, mid or late it is.

Here's what's helping me today: My friends CityMama and BadKitty have started a blog dedicated to the sass and sessiness and whatever-ness of turning 40. And, I kid you not, reading through their posts actually made me want to be in their turning-40 girl gang.

All in good time, I guess. For now, BadKitty's promised me I can get an embroidered jacket and hang with them. I promise in return to bring along all my concealer and hoo-hoo jokes, and leave the empire waist tops and whining at home.

You must check out 40 Whatever right now. I'm probably older and I insist.

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