The Most Perfect 72 Hours

It's Friday. My last day with the children before they head off to their dad's for a week. The weather is beyond glorious. Thank God for that, because we are off to a water park in the burbs and the boys have been gearing up for this trip for days.

I pick up my friend and her daughter and then drive like the clappers along Rte 94, to a non-stop backseat chorus of "WHEN are we going to be there?" in surround sound. Not soon enough, obviously. Finally we are there, the kids jig all around us with barely contained excitement and just miss being hit by a Ford 150, driven by a distracted mother on the phone with, what appears to be, at least 9 children untethered in the back. I wonder what our chances are of surviving this aquatic adventure in one piece? Optimistically - fair to middling. Realistically - slim to none.

Once inside we get our bearings and nab a row of sun loungers near the shallow end of the water. It's my first time here and I am impressed. The majority of the pool is under 3ft deep. The kids fidget relentlessly whilst we smother them in spf50. "Okay kiddos," I announce, "time to listen to the rules...now remember, No smiling, No giggling, No playing nicely, absolutely No having fun - oh, and NO getting wet. Alright?" Three solemn faces with smiles twitching at the corners of their mouths hold my gaze, toes and fingers fidgeting.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go break all the rules!" And that is pretty much the last we see of them for the next 3 hours.

I spend the whole time marvelling at the boy's competence and confidence in the water. Those swimming lessons, although expensive, were worth their weight in gold. I dip in and out of the water in the guise of Fun Mummy and take videos of the boys charging full pelt towards the pool, screeching 'cannon ball!' at the top of their lungs before launching themselves into the water. I even manage to grab a few minutes here and there, virtually horizontal and partially relaxed, on my sun lounger chatting to my friend. There are no fights. There are no meltdowns. And nobody drowns. A successful day.

That night, after the boys have left the house for the week, I join some friends at a lap dancing class which is taking place at the pole dancing studio. There are 10 ladies in the class and 2 armchairs. We go through a brief warm up, consisting mainly of stretching and cavorting (supposedly) sensuously on a mat. And then the fun begins. First, a lesson in chair person etiquette: when sitting in the chair and being a lap dance recipient there is to be no giggling, no wriggling and definitely NO coping a quick feel. Alrighty then.

Sorry to disappoint but there are no photos of our lap dancing attempts. It's probably best left to your imagination. Suffice to say that we arrive a bunch of nervous, middle-aged, somewhat inhibited women but by the time we leave there is a certain swagger to our walk and a wicked glint in our eyes. I'm guessing that there were husbands who certainly got lucky that night. It goes without saying that one of them wasn't mine (well, not with me at least).

On Saturday I decamp to the beach for the day with a friend. We park ourselves a safe distance from the melee of families at the waters edge. iPods are plugged in, books relinquished from the bottom of beach bags. Clouds scud across the sky and a warm breeze dances across my skin. I trail my fingertips lazily across the layer of sand embedded in the glossy coat of sunscreen on my stomach and relish the peace and quiet. I read Six Suspects by Vikas Swarup (who wrote Slumdog) vociferously for nearly 5 hours, determined to finish but then with a sense of almost sadness when I read the last page. Why do I always rush a good book? So eager to devour the words and eat up the story instead of savouring the way the book unfolds. So impatient. You'd think I would have learnt by now.

Late afternoon we drag our sandy selves to the cinema to see (500) Days of Summer. My bikini knickers are holding hostage to at least an acre of the beach. It's not the most comfortable experience I've ever had and I pity the poor usher who was ultimately responsible for detaching sand from velour seat and the surrounding areas.

By the early evening we are back home, freshly showered, drinking chilled white wine on the deck. Exhausted by all that lying down and relaxing. Now what's that all about? I always find a day of minimal activity to be completely dehabilitating.

Which is why Sunday found me lazing around in my PJs until mid afternoon, watching back-to-back episodes of the new series of Entourage. That was exhausting too. So much to do. So little impetus. I was thankful that the weather was abysmal and I watched with some satisfaction the rain lashing at the windows, whilst thunder rumbled, the sky dark and ominous. Anyway, it was just as well that I was conserving my energy because that night my friend dragged me to a Hustle and West Coast Swing dance class which went on for HOURS. Well, the lesson itself, which was simple enough, only took an hour but of course after that it was freestyle. Which apparently does not mean 'anything goes' or front crawl, as I found out when attempting to ad-lib the step-step-triple step-triple step combination.

Luckily for me my partner was very forgiving. And most attractive. Mesmerising green eyes. Tall. Silver haired. Sexy. Not what I was expecting on a Sunday night in the middle of nowhere at a dance class, that's for sure. We danced. We talked. We danced some more. He has my number. So, I'll keep you posted.