Guapas

I am sat (seated? sitting? Sorry mum, I forget) on an airplane en route to Madrid. I am on my own, in that I have no one sitting next to me that I need to restrain or entertain or nourish or plead with. I have only got my own passport to constantly be worried about losing. My handbag has no nappies or wipes or crayons or cracker crumbs or in-case-of-emergency chocolate buttons. 

Dotted around the plane are three of my friends (we were too disorganised/stingy/happy with our own company to pay Ryanair to sit us together), basking in the responsibility-less-ness of independent adult travel. 

We are off to spend time together, with another friend, to celebrate our 40th birthdays. Two of them have turned 40 already, three of us are going to. One of us has a slightly higher risk of not making it to hers, so no harm to get the celebrating in early. 

There is a hen party two rows in front of me. Thirty somethings, pink sashes but not fully embracing the titsoutfertheladz vibe. A fella with a gold lamé vest (I swear) has found himself seated (sat? sitting? God it's hard) in 11D, slap bang in the middle of the laydeez. He has offered around his baby bottle of Jack Daniels and the one whose sash says "bridesmaid" has accepted, and had her picture taken while swigging from it (to make it a real event.  Otherwise who would know?) The fella is exceedingly pleased with himself. 

Behind the hens in row 11 and 12 we have another group of wimmin (in what would be row 13 if the world wasn't so bloody superstitious). These ladies are older. I'm not sure by how much, but their faces are lined under their makeup. They have endured more sleepless nights, and not the fun partying kind.  They have expensive watches and clean shoes. Some of them are chatting, some are just reading their magazines. There's a lot of head-shaking. I can't figure out their story. 50th? 40th but rough? Weekend away just cos?

I am reading Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman. It's brilliant. It's making me shake with laughter while I hold my scarred belly and frantically swot up on my pelvic floor exercises. I have fifteen women in front of me who are the living embodiment of all the good and bad things about our gender. They are comparing handbags, discussing confirmation outfits, sharing a Toblerone. 

I am going to spend the weekend with women who have been through enough shite by now to not particularly care if their bag matches their shoes (though most of them will manage this effortlessly anyway).

I am in heaven. 

Except I've spilled my drink and there's no wipes in my handbag. And I'd murder a few chocolate buttons.

Epilogue: The auld wans ended up being drunk and shrieking about Crystal Swing. The hens drank their Heinekens steadily and quietly. The gold lamé vest man took a very obvious "selfie" of his neighbour's cleavage.