Heidi Isern

writer. thinker. whiskey drinker.

Abstinence and the City?


Manhattan is Broadway shows to some, intense shopping to others.  But to me it always a represented debaucheries and adventure in swank downtown clubs. Regardless if I traveled there for work or pleasure I always was sure to come back with a roaring hangover and amusing tales to tell my ‘smug married’ friends back at home.  If I had to sing for my supper I would do my best to make the antics on the show, Sex and the City, look tame in comparison.

 

Traveling there again for a friend’s birthday (the number of which I am not allowed to disclose) brought once again promises of indulgent stories.   On the plane ride we reclined our seats, drank champagne, and recounted our past trips to New York.

 

“Remember Village bar hopping in that bad white limo…”

“And the Australian attorney sleepover gone awry…”

“Oh and seeing the reverse stranger demonstrated during dinner…”

“And getting kicked out of 230 5th…”

 

This weekend was going to mark another crazy dot in our New York timeline.

 

Except it didn’t.

 

The first night we passed out after a meal at ABC kitchen claiming jet lag (never mind that many of us were coming from a city that was three hours behind which meant we fell asleep at 9pm PST).

 

On night two we ended up in a late night cafe talking about our diets and relationships.   I didn’t call the guy I normally did when in NYC….it no longer made sense plus I had just eaten an ice cream sundae.

 

And on night three we left a dance party at the Dream hotel rooftop sober after about five New York minutes. We gawked at the scantily clad girls dancing on tables in flashing lights and well dressed men spilling tequila on themselves.  Did we really used to go to things like that..and er…do things like that?

 

“Um. I feel like a penis has been just forced inside of me without lube.  Can we get just get drinks and dinner?” asked my friend.

 

“Sure, we’ll come back after some foreplay,” I lied.  We both knew weren’t going to return.

 

We no longer wanted clubs, we wanted restaurants.  We no longer wanted flings, we wanted relationships.  Somehow in the past year I had transformed from Samantha Jones into Bridget Jones.  I didn’t realize how bad it was until an ex boyfriend sent me a link to a book on Amazon “How to get your Mojo back.”

 

Did I really lose my Mojo?  I interrupted my Tuesday rerun session of “Desperate Housewives” to look up the book on Amazon.  Yup, mojo officially lost.  I immediately thought to squeeze myself into my 20 something tube dress, spray glitter on myself, down a fruity cocktail and head down to the next party at the Endup.  Thankfully for everyone involved I didn’t do that that.  I instead decided that I would find my mojo – just a more sophisticated version.

 

Aging doesn’t have to mean the death of fun, but we do have to respect the changes it brings.

 

What is 30 something mojo for me? Likely not more glitzy clubs. (at least not on school nights). I decided to host more dinner parties, volunteer more with organizations, and start to add a little more sex appeal in my career climbing.  And this doesn’t just mean wearing Manolos in the boardroom. It means starting to focus in on projects and clients that are really doing something game changing….as opposed to the ones that pay me the most (or give me an expense account in New York).  And Abstinence-nah.  Just a more focused effort on things that have meaning.

Aging is not lost youth but a new stage of opportunity and strength.
Betty Friedan 

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