My husband, who’s been working in Mexico, told me about this great place he’d been going to with the people from work – the young people. You can imagine my excitement.

“It’s great,” he said. “You start out eating at these long tables and then slowly the music starts to get louder and louder and pretty soon everybody’s dancing.”

I remember dancing. But contrary to the way my husband portrayed himself during our courting phase, he’s no dancer. It’s not that he doesn’t want to dance. A severe lack of rhythm prevents his doing so. When we were young it didn’t matter. We used-to-be the life of the party, dancing on speakers and deep dipping,. But, now – well, all that used-to-be went out the window with the I-Do’s, the real jobs, and the flannel packets of baby.

Except that now my husband is out dancing again.

“That’s nice,” I told him. “I’d do the same if I weren’t busy cleaning sand out of your children’s hair.”

“It’s a cultural thing,” he said.

“I’ve also been keeping the mildew at bay.”

“It’s a different life down there.”

While I may have a touch of used-to-be syndrome, my husband suffers from a bad case of somewhere-else-is-better. He’s never accepted that life is different when you’re just visiting. No place is one big party all the time. Eventually the alarm clock rings and everybody goes to work.

I’m not the only one who likes to reminisce. I called a friend recently to wish her a happy birthday. It’s been 15 years since we lit up the town, but we remember.

Remember that one time? We were so drunk….
Didn’t somebody flash a cop?
Was that the night someone puked off the porch?
Who was that anyway?
Good times.
Good times.

Last fall I went to a bar for Girls Night Out with some friends. Half the girls couldn’t make it because of sick kids and work deadlines, but the rest of us set off to see a live band in a bar. How much more used-to-be can you get?

We stepped back in time, into the kind of place where you emerge at the end of the evening with no voice and reeking of smoke. Too many bodies pressed up against each other made oxygen seem scarce. Third world countries have better bathrooms.

After a long wait in line, I made my way through the crowd with a beer in each hand. When I found my friend she looked at me funny.

“What?” I said. Just because I hadn’t been in a bar in a while didn’t mean I’d forgotten how to leverage my time. “I’m not waiting again.”

The band made me feel old and law-abiding. Maybe I’ve gotten really square in my maternal bliss, but since when do bands play two full sets of songs about smoking pot? The boys from Oklahoma roll their joints too long. Who knew?

“You should have warned me about that band,” I said to a PTA mom the next week at the 1st grade musical.

“What band?”

“Cross Canadian Ragweed.”

She stopped messing with her camera long enough to give me a look.

“They have the word weed in their name!” she said. “What were you expecting?”

That’s just it. I don’t know what to expect anymore. With teenagers in my future, I’ve decided it’s important to go into a bar at least once a year – to keep informed. Purely research. And I mean a real bar, not one of those smooth jazz playing joints that sell booze to old people.

In the meantime I decided to mosey down to Mexico and check out this restaurant my husband had been raving about. We ate and drank beer and hung out with his young colleagues. The music got louder and they started showing videos on the wall. Chairs were flung backwards and indeed people started to dance. Not so much a cultural experience as a bar with a lot of other people living out our used-to-be.

And there we were. Me about to die from smoke inhalation and beer bloat, my faithful husband standing by, bottle in hand, nodding his head back and forth like a rhythm-less turkey.

Welcome to here and now.