31-year-old working mothers just want to have fun

21 Sep

I couldn’t sleep last night because I’m an adult and it was making me want to vomit. When did this happen? When did my fridge get covered in school calendars and “art projects” and Minnie Mouse magnets and gold homework stars for my stepkid?

The most irresponsible things I’ve done in recent memory are that I left a sippy cup with milk in my kid’s room for a week and it turned into a layer of water and a layer of yogurt, and I let my credit card expire on my iTunes account. Before I was an adult the thought of not having iTunes would make me quiver with fear that the end of the world was near. Now I’m getting by.

I am suddenly adult in the following ways:

1. Language. Back in the day (like a month ago) I could curse openly and freely without the worry that my babygirl would chirp it back to me in her adorable little chipmunk voice. No longer the case. We’ve had to quit cursing cold turkey and it fucking sucks. Other things I can no longer subject my kid to in fear that she’ll repeat my actions: Have road rage. Give random strangers the finger. Get tattoos. Throw things at Harry.

2. Wardrobe. Yesterday I put on one of my staple fall/winter dresses that I had picked up last year and worn constantly. Just a little black lace Free People number with a ragged hem and navy blue lining that peeks out of the bottom. “Shelby!” I scolded at my reflection. “This is not appropriate for work. Nobody is going to take you seriously with this outfit. Free People is not an acceptable department to shop in anymore, grow up and go to Banana Republic immediately!” I wound up wearing a dorky printed shirt that I stole from my mom’s closet and slacks and fucking pearl earrings. I looked like the highest form of personal nightmare. Yet I was satisfied.

5. Work Habits. I just don’t know what’s going on with me. Instead of spending all my time at work on my Facebook page, I spend all of my time on the restaurant’s Facebook page. Instead of spending countless hours Googling upcoming concerts, I spend countless hours talking to performers about playing live music at my place. Instead of drinking a Bud Light on one of those very rare evenings that I stop for a drink after work, (Charlie and Nicole are gone. It’s a lonely restaurant world.) I drink Craft Beers and work on educating myself on hoppiness and bitterness and headiness and other beer words so that I can properly provide a hearty and trendy list to my customers. Instead of playing only the music I want to listen to, I play a Pandora list based on only the music I want to listen to so that other stuff plays too. Oh, and we got new hamburger rolls and I take photos on them for Instagram. Surely my maturity level is peaking as we speak.

3. Television Programming. Honestly? The saddest part of my newly acknowledged adult life is that I have absolutely no idea what shows are on the Disney Channel. The last time I had enough time to watch my very favorite brain-free shows was when Wizards of Waverly Place was on, and now Selena Gomez is way too busy tramping it up with The Biebs to do things like make a FANTASTIC TV show with the average target demographic being 12-years-old. Now the only stuff I watch is old people shit like The X Factor and Live with Kelly and Michael Strahan, and baby shit like Yo Gabba Gabba, which is only really fun to watch when you’re tripping on mushrooms and that is NOT OK when your kid is awake, which now seems like ALWAYS, thank you fucking baby teeth.

7. Shelbytown. Right now I am sitting in a Starbucks in the morning sun, sitting upright in a chair and sipping on a healthy caffeinated iced tea and tapping away on my keyboard and wearing a pair of heels. There is a trio of women LITERALLY perusing the school calendar and discussing Candle Fundraisers for the PTA. I’d be less devastated if I didn’t find myself wondering if this is my district or not, and who I can hit up to buy some cinnamon scented sparklers. What the fuck!?!?! This is not the real me!! The real me is lying facedown on a couch in a fifteen-year-old pair of lacrosse shorts with my computer resting comfortably on a throw pillow, munching on self-serve fro yo and barely keeping my eyes open! If you looked at the real me you would think that I’m Googling pot brownie recipes or changing my Facebook status every 3 minutes (which would possibly be the case). But some dude reading a paper just glanced up at me and I bet he was convinced that I was catching up on some sort of vital correspondence with a fellow professional, or building a power point marketing presentation or something white collar like that. Writing at 9am cannot possibly produce anything even remotely interesting. In order to be truly inspired one must must must be polluted on the day’s bullshit. What bullshit happens at 9am? A bitch cut me in line. Big shit. If it had happened at night I probably would have been amped enough to elbow her out of my way and ask for an unsweetened venti iced green tea while I stepped on her kid’s toe. But not at 9am.

As a result of turning into an adult, I’ve decided to rebel. On my next day off I’m hiring a babysitter and I’m going to lay in my bed and watch 3 hours of the Disney Channel. Then I’m gonna go to a mexican restaurant that has karaoke night and drink Corona Lights and do La Bamba 5 times in a row. Also other stuff, but it’s going to be really spur of the moment so I can’t tell you what they are yet. But should it be appropriate for documenting, you’ll be able to read about my inappropriate behavior right here on Shelbytown.


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