Slumbering

Scenes from Richmond Upon Thames

London, 2010

Late Saturday night, in a dodgy hotel on the outskirts of Londontown, I found myself smack dab in the middle of an impromptu, pre-teenish slumber party.


In one corner, a column of six lean marathoner feet giggled and jumped up down on a four poster bed. ignoring all warnings that her head was about to do an Alice in Wonderland and go through the roof.

In another corner, a petite South African beauty was spinning vintage Dior circles in impossibly high inch heels while texting a quick, "staying the night w/ the girls" across the city to her handsome husband.

 On the floor, while delicately tugging a mattress from its box spring with one hand and hugging my Barkus with the other, another newlywed put in one final plea to end the evening with a bit of dancing at the nightclub at the bottom of the road.

A fourth girlfriend now accustomed to desert living, shivered as she reached into her endless suitcase and tossed each of us an elegantly wrapped Valentine's treat- this after she had expressly forbidden us girls from bringing any birthday gifts to her.

As Bikram moves practiced in class earlier that day began to take form on the narrow strip of floor not covered by mattreses, suitcases, makeup bags, hair dryers, or cast off frocks, 

the idea for this post postured itself in my mind's eye; 

I smiled, thinking how quickly 

the day had unwound 

from Namaste, 

to LK Bennett, 

to semi-colons, 

to wine,

to whine,

to recline.

I am blessed with a husband 

who doesn't mind 

that my slumber parties 

require a passport.

And doubly blessed

with girlfriends who

like me,

at age 37,

think it quite normal

to still be slumber partying.