It’s hard for me to do stuff for myself. Always has been, really. And since I’ve become a mom, well, that has only intensified. I am not sure why guilt becomes a close companion when I think about getting my nails done or consider getting a new pair of jeans because the ones I’ve had for nearly six years are about to disintegrate. It just happens. But not today. For the next 36 hours I am doing something for me. I will be driving my car loaded with my closest friends three hours south to Dallas, Texas. And. The. Excitement. Is. Killin’. Me. There will be eleven, count them ELEVEN of us women going on our short overnight getaway. In a nice hotel. And you know what that means: I don’t have to make the bed tomorrow morning nor do I have to cook for the next five meals. It’s the little things. We girls will laugh, cry, stop for restroom breaks because we have two pregnant women in the group, shop, eat, laugh some more, shop, eat, laugh a whole lot more and definitely talk about how blessed we are that God brought us into each other’s lives. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a car full of crazy 30-something women to drive for the next few hours. And a few extra bucks that is ’bout to burn a whole in my pocket. Gone.