‘What is tonight’s challenge going to be?’ my bestie Melanie asked me as we sipped our vodka sodas, leaning against the bar that was holding us up. Our legs weren’t buckling from intoxication, but rather from the paddleboarding I’d done all morning while Mel and the other girls did a fitness challenge back on shore.

‘Challenge?’ I blinked, not comprehending. ‘You mean, like trying not to get fall-down drunk?’ After all, the girl had done like a jillion squats. And our other bestie Marisa is a notorious stumbler whenever liquor is involved, even when her quads aren’t sore.

It was day two of our annual girls’ weekend in Ocean City, Maryland, and we were at wildly popular nightclub Fager’s Island, where vacationers young and old come to revel amidst a back drop of DJ’s, live music and reckless anonymity. Also, more bachelor and bachelorette parties than the Las Vegas strip.

‘What is tonight’s challenge going to be?’ my bestie Melanie asked me as we sipped our vodka sodas, leaning against the bar that was holding us up. Our legs weren’t buckling from intoxication, but rather from the paddleboarding I’d done all morning while Mel and the other girls did a fitness challenge back on shore.

‘Challenge?’ I blinked, not comprehending. ‘You mean, like trying not to get fall-down drunk?’ After all, the girl had done like a jillion squats. And our other bestie Marisa is a notorious stumbler whenever liquor is involved, even when her quads aren’t sore.

It was day two of our annual girls’ weekend in Ocean City, Maryland, and we were at wildly popular nightclub Fager’s Island, where vacationers young and old come to revel amidst a back drop of DJ’s, live music and reckless anonymity. Also, more bachelor and bachelorette parties than the Las Vegas strip.

‘No, silly.’ Melanie shook her head, motioning to the colorful cast of characters pouring into the place. ‘We need a quest for fun. What kind of trouble are we going to stir up around here?’

Now I understood. Mel and I are pros at taking the piss out of strangers, and this crowd was ripe for the picking on. See, as married moms, there is only so much fun you can have without breaking vows or the law. And overdrinking and binge eating can only take a girl so far.

Plus, I was game for a good story. Ever since we arrived the day prior, our friend Andrea had peppered our activities with the one question all web writers come to accept as an occupational hazard:

‘IS THIS GOING TO BE IN YOUR BLOG?’

‘I don’t know,’ I’d say, considering it. ‘Depends what the point is. We’d have to think up a good angle.’

I just wasn’t sure that a girl’s getaway would be that interesting to read about, especially without the vow or law-breaking that makes these trips look so fun in movies. That’s not to say we hadn’t witnessed any debauchery. Last night’s visit to the infamous Seacrets beach bar was like being on Spring Break, complete with girls dancing in bikinis in the surf as waitresses (also in bikinis) served drinks to drunken frat boys at tables set out in the water. We were even treated to a bachelorette in a white two-piece dancing with a dildo.

But witnessing is a far cry from participating, and my crew wanted no part of playing in the surf, noting that this bay of iniquity just had to be swimming in urine. Personally, I still wanted to take my frozen libation and wade out to one of the floating rafts for a nap, but when I noticed a couple going at it out there hot and heavy, it dawned on me that those rafts probably don’t get hosed down much, at least not by the management.

Ewwww.

‘Maybe we could use fake names?’ Mel now was suggesting. ‘Or go around photo-bombing everyone’s selfies?’

I love loved the idea of selfie sabotage, so we agreed that would be a goal for the evening, along with another activity that has become a Fager’s Island tradition: telling all the drunk bride and grooms-to-be that they shouldn’t get married because marriage sucks.

‘Is tonight going to be in your blog?’ Andrea asked, sidling up to me at the bar just as I finished terrifying a young bachelor party with my deliciously exaggerated warning of doom and gloom.

Hmmm…What would be the angle?’ I asked her.

‘How about: We’ve Still Got It?’

I liked that, I really did, but I thought maybe the theme was a tad expected.

Then, like a minute later, a large group of good-looking guys huddled together for a selfie and I sprung into action, jumping up behind them and into their pic.

Fun, right? Wrong! Let us just say that group was not happy with me. Whatever it is I’ve still got, they weren’t having any of it. I guess the whole point of photo-bombing is to do it on the sly, instead of whoop-whooping as you leap into frame. Whoops.

It would have been easy for me to slink off, embarrassed. But then he walked in.

Known to many as the Ferrari Man, his real name is Eddy Maserati, but my friends and I call him Captain Sparkle due to his penchant for bedazzled partywear and his effervescent attitude. We first met Captain Sparkle at this same club a year ago, and were instantly amused by the spry senior’s leathery tan, short shorts, and over the top dance moves that he was equally happy to perform solo or flocked by a throng of gyrating bachelorettes.

The Ferrari Man is something of a legend on the Ocean City party circuit, and I’ve read that he also splits time between night clubs in Orlando and Vegas. I’m not sure how old the guy is, but I absolutely know that he feels young at heart. And the fact that Captain Sparkle was still out here whooping it up a year later, well it completely made my night. Following his lead, my girlfriends and I spent the rest of our evening shaking our stuff on the dance floor.

Forget about me and my girls, he’s still got it. And I can only hope that at his age, I can still get out there too.

So the point, the story, my angle is this: Long live girls’ weekends, guys’ trips and other trips down memory lane. Life is short and fun is what we make it. Sometimes you’ve gotta bling yourself out and shake it like you just don’t care. It just might be the fountain of youth.

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