I have a mild allergy to adulthood.
Actually, I am not sure it is so mild. Responsibilities? Chores? Calendars? Taxes? Bills? Budgets? Wrinkles? Schedules? Stocks? These things give me existential hives.
And yet. I tolerate adulthood because I must. Because though I whine like a toddler and pout like a baby, I am an adult. Because at thirty-one, I am a big girl. Because there is no going back. I have no choice.
Why the allergy? I’m not entirely sure. It’s complicated. And these answers are cop-outs, but they are mine and I hold them dear. I think there are many reasons why I am having a hard time with this growing up business. One of them?
Wildness.
We adults—and particularly we perfect parents—are not encouraged to be wild. No. We are implored to be prudent and responsible and organized. We are supposed to make lists and plans and beds. We are expected to live within boundaries. We are supposed to color inside the lines. We are supposed to be civilized, to use our inside-voices at all times. We are supposed to be healthy and get sleep and drink lots of water.
We are expected to be good girls and boys.
But here’s the thing. Sometimes, I don’t want to be a good girl. Sometimes I want to go out and drink wine and dance and be young again. Sometimes I want to stay up past my bedtime and swim in deafening music. Sometimes, I want to scribble and shout and celebrate. Sometimes, I want to break rules.
Sometimes, I want to be wild.
It was a wild weekend.
And I’m tired. So tired. But I can’t stop smiling. Literally. Can’t stop. And this is not like me.
Friday night? Not so wild. Husband and I ate takeout on the coffee table and watched a DVRed episode of The Bachelor. But Saturday night? It was nuts. For me at least. I got dressed up. I looked hot. (Roar.) I wore heels. I sipped champagne with good friends. I laughed ceaselessly. I ate dinner at a swanky restaurant downtown at 10:30 p.m.! There were celeb spottings! (Tracy Morgan and Rachel Zoe.) We ordered the $75 truffle macaroni and cheese! At 1 a.m., I climbed a fire escape to a club where I savored more champagne and Red Bull until after 3 a.m.!
It was wild. Now it is worth mentioning that there are various species of wild. My wild? Not at all like a Tiger’s. There was no prowling, no misbehaving. I only talked to one man the whole night and he was our waiter. It was a girls’ night. On the grand scale of Wild Life, it was pretty tame. But for me, for this harried and happy mom, it was indeed wild.
And I came home and tumbled into bed next to my snoozing man. And four hours later, I was up. And a mom again. For the first half of the day, I was a shell of a person. My sentences had holes. But I stuffed them with little girl snuggles. I held court on the couch “supervising” and “delegating.” But I was so happy. I can’t explain it. I didn’t even remember it was Sunday.
And then. Last night. Husband and I met a handful of other couples to take over Wollman Rink in Central Park. We had the ice to ourselves. We skated into the night against a backdrop of city lights. Actually, I skated for about five minutes before retiring to the heated tent to sip hot chocolate. Another late night. A little less wild. But absolutely wonderful.
And this morning? I am so beyond shredded with exhaustion. Moving slowly. But quaking with awareness. That life is good. That I am where I should be. That this adulthood thing? It’s actually not half bad. I sit here at Starbucks near Toddler’s Preschool, sipping bitter coffee. Still smiling.
