Past Perfect

Last night, hubs and I attended a going away party for his mother, which turned out to also be a surprise baby shower for Zigs. It was great to see so many people and the amount of goodwill and generosity was ridiculous. They really like my husband down in FL.

Some of our friends started doing shots and getting sloppy drunk at the bar and, for the first time since I got pregnant, I found myself wishing I wasn’t. I wanted to join in, get messed up, regret it in the morning, and this desire was followed immediately by a booming voice in my head:

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I will never be that girl again. The girl who wandered through the Village tequila-drunk with a cow bell in hand, the girl who threw up like a ninja and then told everyone about it because she was so proud of her skills (this happened repeatedly for about a year), the girl who could flirt without feeling like an old lady and/or a whale, the girl who didn’t pee herself without warning. The girl who never referred to herself in the third person.

I know eventually I’ll be able to go back to my nightly glass (or 2) of wine, and I’ll have plenty of grandparents around if I get the urge to go nuts, but from here on, I’ll always have that extra layer of mom. Moms don’t party. Moms don’t flirt. Moms are just… moms.

Lindsay-is-trans

Of course, as I’m thinking this, I’m also thinking Shut up, you crazy person. YOU GET TO BE A MOM. The party side of me probably makes up about 1/100th of the whole. I’ve always preferred staying home or hanging out with a small group of friends. Game night has never sounded boring to me. A good date night is a night of watching television. I am what you would call lame.

But the urge is there, at times. The urge to be young, vital, attractive, interesting. I know it’s vain and selfish and gross, but I now carry cortisone, baby powder, and panty liners in my purse (use your imagination, if you’re so inclined). Soon, I’ll add diapers, toys, baby clothes, and (oh, yeah) a baby to the mix. The contents of my purse are changing, as are the contents of my life. And 99/100ths of me is very excited about it. There’s just a small part that would like to be able to get a little crazy every so often.

Of course, then I remember being in my 20s with lots of sweaty drunk people wondering who would go home with whom, how I was going to weather the subway ride home without throwing up all over myself, how to reconcile my desire to be found attractive with my feminism, and I’m okay with feeling old and being pregnant.

I’ve been old my whole life, I’m just growing into it.

So, okay, now I know that I’ll have some moments of wanting what has passed. But I also know that my life isn’t over. Not only will I still be able to have a party night or two, I’ll have (warning: mushy ahead) so much more. I’m CREATING A PERSON. As a rationalist, this is as close to magic as I will ever get.

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One Comment on “Past Perfect”

  1. Nosey says:

    The urge to be young, vital, attractive, interesting: look at your parents!


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