Carrie showed up not half an hour later, and before the waiter had even brought her wine she looked at me and said, "You realize we're in our mid-thirties." I told her I had just informed Whitney.
We spent the lunch talking about how young we feel (28-30) versues our legal age, or the age we would have held on to for a little longer if life worked that way (30). It is just a number, afterall, but, whether it's your weight on a scale or the year on your drivers license, numbers can be daunting, especially when math reveals Whitney and Carrie have children closer to college-age than we are.
After lunch, we took a picture. Whitney sent it to her mom, LaRue, who has known Carrie + I since we were at UT.
"Y'all look great," she texted back, "...for your age."
Whitney's mom was just joking us, but it's true that from start to finish of our visit, the three of us kept coming back to our age. We're only 34. I know that's still young, but it's not 18 or 20 or even 25, the ages we all were when we came to know each other, respectively, many years ago. So we went and did what woman concerned about the march of time should do:
We stayed hydrated...
and we got manicures and pedicures.
Because salon time, even at cheap nail places, is always good for camuflauging a few years...or a missing toe nail.
And...if you're pampering alongside some of your favorite friends, for a while...time will stand still....even for ladies our age.