We were old enough to know better- but the butane seemed harmless enough. Four women of an age where skinny jeans were questionable and clothes that 'give' preferable, sitting in our pajamas at the dinner table in our hotel room. Hair tossed up in wild buns, faces smelling clean and flannel jammies comforting us, we felt in our teens. And (not to do anything halfway) we were making decisions like them too.
Tara in the plush white hotel robe, pulled out what looked like an unlabeled tin of cat food - but when she struck a match to it, the jump of flame like a rock star appearing on stage, was a tell-tell sign that it wasn't cat food. Candy,looking thirteen in blue monkey flannel pj's, retrieved the wooden skewers. And Debbie, in her holey-worn sweats came giggling out of the kitchen area with marshmallows.
We were living it up at the Ritz and making smores may not seem devilish to some - but for four stay-at-home mom's, this was like being drunk at Prom (although I've never had that experience). The smell of burnt marshmallow flesh filled the room and just as the mushy goodness filled grinning mouths, a piercing sound split through our hotel room.
We froze, marshmallows guiltily dripping from burnt wooded sticks. When the realization of what was happening sank in and sobered our sugar high, all eyes dropped down to our attire.
"Did we set off the fire alarm?" Debbie was offended by the possibility. Evidence of her marshmallow clung to her chin.
"No, it didn't even cause smoke to when we roasted them." Candy was determined to blow it off and remain unmoved in our childless refuge.
"We need to evacuate." We all knew the truth and reluctantly gave in.
Hundreds of people lined the front of the hotel- glittering gowns from a party, crisp polo-shirts after a day on the green, a few jeans and sweaters tossed in for good measure. We stood mortified at 5:00 p.m. in our blue monkey, white-robe, holey sweats and pink polka-dotted pajamas. Highlighted due to our clothing choice and wicked sticky fingers.