Photo: Meet my coffin.
It's like I've become an adult overnight; I don't understand it, and I'm certainly not a fan. This past week has been a doozy--not my Best Week Ever, but not the Worst, either. I caught myself uttering key phrases that only my mother would appreciate, and here is a sampling:
"I can't wait for my health insurance to kick in."
"Swimming is going to be so good for us."
"I should just chop off all of my hair so I can wash and go."
"He's 23, just a kid--he has plenty of time to figure out the rest of his life."
"I need a nap."
"Diet soda is so bad for you."
"We're going to our first fundraiser!"
"I don't have time for his immaturity right now."
"I'm too old for this."
"This" was a video game that my 9-year old could play, but asking me to understand it was like asking me to lose 20 pounds at The Cheesecake Factory. Health insurance, napping, short hair, exercise, friendship boundaries, and giving money to charity? For whom the bell tolls, indeed; for me, that's who. Can't you hear it? It's the sound of my youth being sucked out of me like the liposuction I so desperately crave. Next thing you know, I'll be putting fiber on my food, even though I don't really know what it is. At some point, later on in life, your once-normal pile of shit becomes unrecognizable 'stool', and I think fiber is the reason. And that's reason enough to avoid it.
Health insurance has gone from being an uninteresting non-entity to a serious must-have in about eight seconds; I never cared about it until it vanished. Putting on a bathing suit doesn't end in suicide now, because it's not about how cute I look or what designer made it; it's about whether or not it fits. Twentysomethings seem really young and dumb to me, which is probably pretty strange for my twentysomething boyfriend. And I have one anonymous friend whose immaturity and petty game-playing is getting as old as he is; too bad we're in such close proximity, otherwise I would cut him out completely. I can't tell if that's immaturity on my part, or if I'm just getting clarity on what a real friend looks like--it feels more like the latter. And napping? That's something my grandma does. She also chopped her hair off in an effort to 'keep things simple', swims for physical therapy, and also thinks diet soda is bad for you. I have turned into my grandmother. I will never be cool or tall again, especially since I only wear flat shoes now; heels are basically dead to me. *sob*
When I was in Portland, I realized that my friends--me included, though they put me to shame--are turning into Those Women. We like eating out, watching chick flicks, and talking about babies; the conception, care and maintenance of babies, birthing options, getting the baby weight off, sleep schedules, siblings for babies, shopping for babies, problems with babies, baby bags and sippy cups and videos and literature and horror stories and adoption stories and cannibalism and... well now I'm just making things up, but you get the idea. And while some of it bored me to tears, I also had my own baby stories to contribute--it felt like a natural progression, really. We used to talk about men, and then we found a few good ones; we used to discuss finances, but we're all doing okay now; we used to talk about what we wanted to do when we grew up, and then we grew up. Now everyone has young kids (with one in the process of trying), and that's the new topic. The only difference between us and other mommy groups is that we say the word 'mother' as much as the word 'motherfucker', which actually puts me at ease. We haven't completely given up on our rebel-rousing, even if we're just rousing ourselves in a nice home located in a nice neighborhood in Portland. Well, at the very least, I haven't given up. I need my F-bombs like I need air to breathe and babies to eat; without them, I'm just another girl in her thirties, obsessed with aging and procreation.
I also got a promotion and a raise yesterday, which is something an adult receives, right after they finish college, meet their mate, get married, have kids, and work their tails off. Or, in my case, drop out of college, have a kid, get married, get divorced, and float around professionally. I'm such a fucking role model! I guess the only thing left to do is buy a Winnebago and perish in the Midwest. Sounds appealing.