Before I was somebody’s mother, I used to cover up the gray. I used to get my hair blown out. My make-up saw the light of day. Happy hour wasn’t my daughter’s nightly nap. Putting on lotion wasn’t a luxury. My heels and skirts weren’t considered vintage.
Saturday, my single-for-a-day alter ego, Dirty Martini, came out to play. She only makes rare appearances, once every six months to a year. She knows when I really need her to appear.
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