GoMom

Last Friday night, I had a function to attend. A fancy one.

So I picked out my best posh frock, scrounged for the diffuser attachment to my hairdryer (living under the towels in the hamper) and primped and buffed like I haven't done in a while. I looked good, really good.

I left my husband in the driveway (I'd have plenty of girls to drink with at this function, no need for a tag-along!) peeled out and headed downtown. Yes, there was Bohemian Rhapsody on the radio, and yes I cranked it and rocked out.

As I neared the swank hotel destination, I pulled into the valet parking queue behind the other cars. Looking in the mirror I felt that my make-up looked flawless and my boobs were perfectly jacked. I'm not going to lie, I was a little in love with my hotness.

That's when I noticed the cars ahead of me: Audi, Beamer, C-class Mercedes, a Cayenne. Suddenly, I was ultra-aware of my big-ass Suburban with its broken headlight and scratch along the right side from that parking ramp I didn't quite successfully navigate. Looking around all I could focus on was the sea of empty water bottles on the floor, the popcorn crunching under my foot, crumpled granola bar wrappers jammed into the cupholders, and the sudden overwhelmingly pungent aroma of someone's hockey equipment left in the back. I couldn't even face the mysterious brown stain next to the car seat that I've been mentally blocking for two weeks.

My hotness had been dimmed, but it was too late to pull out of line and find somewhere to self-park (which I was initially avoiding to save me from having to walk blocks in my cute but tight-n'-tall shoes). Honestly, I wasn't so horrified that some twentyish car parker was going to judge me on my lack of sparkling car cleanliness. Because, hello, they park cars. I think what bugged me was my reality crashing in around me, the real possibility that I was a mom-on-the-town, all gussied up and trying desperately to recapture some of the old glam. Like my friends and I were a bad, cheesy, older and thicker version of a bachelorette party. Eew and ick.

But then the car door opened, the fresh young valet took my beast and my baggage and drove it away. So I pranced inside, tucked right into a Manhattan, and rocked the night away.