Girls just wanna have fun

Plugging my ears as a fire truck came barreling down the road at 7:30 in the morning, I had to seriously resist the urge to wave and wink at the lifesavers on board. One of the many things that bonds Cece and me is that we walk—nay, strut—the fine line between self-centeredness and the ability to be overly empathetic. When you think about it, what allows one to be excessively empathetic with others is that one can and quickly put oneself in other people’s stilettos and suede booties, what have you. It’s a double-edged sword that also causes one to be a bit too much in other people’s situations. “Yes! Me too! That’s also happened to me! Me, me, me!” It’s not that Cece and I don’t care about other people’s situations. Quite the contrary, we really do care. And overly empathizing and walking in other people’s shoes is our shared tactic to show we do. In any case, as that truck blared past me the other morning, I was reminded of how on one Christmas latte and snow filled shopping trip through Manhattan, Cece and I both, simultaneously, turned toward one of those screeching fire trucks as it came down the street behind us, and looked up expectantly as if we were being honked at. That’s right. Honked at. Flirted with, if you will, by the firemen.

“Actually girls, if you would be so kind as to move aside as we go SAVE LIVES, that would be great. Love your knit caps, but seriously… We’re not honking at you, we’re trying to get to an actual fire. You know, do our job.” OK, the firemen didn’t actually pause in all their glory and explain this to us in so many words, but it was clear when we saw they were racing down the street, trying to get the smug cars to pull over, and pull on all their gear. C’est la vie. So maybe in that instance we were not erring on the side of empathetic, but I did come right out and say we tinker with self-importance, didn’t I?!

Anyway, it was on this most recent encounter with a powerful fire truck that I had the idea (albeit, unoriginal) for this year’s Halloween costumes. I flipped my cell phone open and called Cece. I left a message saying, “Maybe instead of Disney princesses by way of trollops, we can be firewomen! That way we can wear tights, hot shorts, and tanks that we already have. And we even get to buy cute hats and say things all night like, ‘You look hot!’ What do you think? xxoo, Jo.” I knew the response I would get from Cece—“Done and done."

But much to my surprise, all did not go as planned.

All I remember from her voicemail message are a blur of phrases; “May not be able to celebrate Halloween this year,” and “On-call till 1:30 am many nights,” and “Let’s see.” I think my heart actually stopped while I listened, although I can’t recall for sure. Us not spend Halloween together? Not hit the town in matching onesies from American Apparel? I just about died.

Then a terrifying thought crossed my mind: When had our adult selves taken our youthful selves hostage?

Maybe I had spent my Sunday morning throwing up five times (or more… clouded memory) after drinking the night before at a wedding—and in doing so turned the hangover corner from pop two Advil to quiver and cry dramatically face-first over a toilet bowl for hours. Maybe I had recently taken to wearing cardigans everyday to work because they cover that pesky midsection. And maybe I do wait to watch MTV's The City on the computer the next day since I'm never awake by 10:30 anymore. However, when my plans for Halloween were threatened by Cece’s adult work schedule, I got the distinct feeling that we weren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto. Oh no.

I envision our adult selves sitting behind proverbial desks, slapping our youthful selves on the wrist for dancing on the bar to Pour Some Sugar On Me. “Ouch!” our younger selves cry. “Girls just wanna have fun!” we whimper, in between sips of Seltzer and Vodka drinks.

“Well, you’re not girls anymore!” our adult selves snap back. “You’re grown-ups now and there will be no more gallivanting on Halloween for either of you.”

“Waa!” we both cry. But it’s no use. We’ve been taken hostage. We’ve been taken hostage by ourselves—by our jobs, our schedules, and our alcohol-intolerant bodies. So what is a girl—nay, a woman—do to? I don’t have the answer just yet, but I can tell you I’m on the lookout for it. And I’m sure I’ll negotiate a way out of this hostage situation at some point, and truthfully, it’ll probably be when I least expect it… Most likely while I’m nursing a hangover, cuddled up in a cardigan, watching The City On Demand.