People keep telling me that part of growing up is losing the desire to go out. But I’m becoming increasingly convinced that either a) they’re fooling themselves, or b) I’m genetically pre-disposed to eternal youth (alt: immaturity). My grandparents are 85 and still have a rollicking social calendar. My mother is 59 and flits around the world ballroom dancing. And I am…old enough to know better, yet just came off a Cabo weekend that will probably haunt me via YouTube for the next 10 years.
I blame it all on Skye (pictured above). She’s five years younger than me (more energy!), 8 inches taller (better natural alcohol tolerance), and grew up in Hawaii/New Orleans (where they start crazy-training straight out of the cradle).
On Saturday, we woke up at 8AM, went out on an America’s Cup racing yacht with Team New Zealand (more on that as soon as they send me the good pics), and finished our morning off with Pacifica, chips and salsa. We earned it, too–being a “grinder” on a racing yacht is seriously hard work.
By 2PM we were on Medina Beach, looking for action. Actually, I was randomly snapping photos, and Skye was looking for free booze. Which she found immediately. The only catch was, acquiring it meant subjecting ourselves to all sorts of ridiculousness: running in circles, slamming shots, chugging beers like frat boys, and having obnoxious Cabo emcees call attention to my boobs till I eventually smacked one guy upside his greasy head.
Made it back to Skye’s hotel in time to catch a truly glorious sunset, made more glorious by the fact that, even though the infinity pool was closed, we refused to leave, and thereby kept our unobstructed front-and-center seats. Strawberry margaritas. Sashimi. Guacamole. Mmmm.
(by 11PM we thought this was a great photo)
In spite of the nefarious machinations of the taxi cartel (they rule Cabo…they suck), we made it to a restaurant festival where I ate 57 different types of flank steak and Skye kept finding bartenders who wanted to give us tequila shots. At some point, we found ourselves standing in the shuttle pickup zone, singing Four Non Blondes at the top of our lungs while many strangers stared at us and our friend Ben ran away, saying “I’ve…just…got to find a bathroom!” Clearly time for a change of venue.
We rallied Ben, commandeered a van, and headed to the town of Cabo San Lucas. And there, my friends, my story ends–not forever, but just until Skye can email me some video. Because honestly, apart from vague recollections of dancing to Daft Punk and not falling off the podium and bumping into our friends from Team New Zealand, I cannot tell you much. Except that Jello shots are not food, no matter how much they may seem like it at 1AM.
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