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2.22.03 Margaritas Against the Madness

When the world is drunk on testosterone, when men are at their chest-beating sanctimonious worst, what's a woman to do?

Party.

Last night, Lily hosted a margarita party.

 It is becoming a tradition these events without men. They aren't really even about margaritas any more -- last night was more cosmopolitans and strawberry daiquiris. I guess we are the margaritas, a dozen or so women who work together who find liberation in leaving the men at home. In my circle, couples parties are polite but slightly strained affairs. Sometimes the men separate off -- they talk of televised sports and their latest golf games. Or they hang out uncomfortably with the women, trying to make non-sports conversation with people they aren't interested in. The hetero women don't quite relax -- is my man getting too drunk, is he finding someone to talk to, does he know where the food is, does he look bored? I can only imagine that the lesbian women tire of watching these formulas.

And thus, the margaritas emerge. Silly costumes, girlie drinks, giggles. I'd say it was like being in eighth-grade again -- except that in eighth grade I was much more worried about not being cute enough, not being skinny enough, not being able to dance. The joy of middle-age is watching those anxieties slip away. You finally realize that no one is cute enough, no one is skinny enough, and no one notices how badly you dance as long as you keep moving.

Lily lives in a big new house on an isolated rural hill. Her living room is large enough to dance in. Her stereo system is loud. Karaoke machines appeared. It was a perfect party. No one really even had to talk. We sang off key. We danced in circles and in lines. All the world's bullying and posturing and toxic competition melted away.

I did myself a favor and didn't drink much. So this morning I have that nice partied-out relaxed feeling but no hangover.

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