Don’t feel sorry for me when you see my disheveled hair that’s in desperate need of service and notice I’m wearing the same shirt two days in a row.
Don’t gawk at the fact that my desperate pleas to my husband to bring home a new box of wine because I have shamelessly siphoned the last few drops from the bag while my children scream at one another over Mardi Gras beads from the 2017 parade.
I am not a sad, lonely, horrible woman with a drinking problem.
Whether or not I’m a very good one is still up for debate – one you are welcome to have with friends over spritzers with your freshly done gel manicure and makeup because I won’t be there. I’ll be curled up on my drool-stained couch in the quiet hour I get after the kids’ bedtime, right before I pass out myself. Unbothered. .
See, it’s not that I don’t want to get gussied up in an outfit I bought a year ago in hopes to one day wear IT instead of the pajama/workout clothes combo. It’s not that I don’t enjoy wearing makeup and dusting off the old curling iron. It’s not that I don’t want to pay $30 for my single meal and drinks and come home late only to wake up a few hours later because my kids like to wake up at the crack of dawn…
Oh wait…I don’t.
Call me crazy but I actually enjoy being in this season of life where I don’t HAVE to make that much effort to unwind. I love my friends and rely heavily on their witty banter and emotional support while I stand in a puddle of my child’s urine, wearing a cloak of humiliation, holding my last Clorox wipe, staring at the balls of dog hair that
However, I don’t want to hang out with you.
Don’t take it personally – if you’re honest with yourself, you probably don’t want to hang out with me either. We just all have learned that the only way to get away from
is to actually LEAVE the house. And if we are leaving the house after 5 pm, we might as well pull ourselves together and take a picture, because it, most definitely, will last longer than we will. We yawn over appetizers and look around at the twenty-somethings wondering how and when we got to this point where we had to forgo dessert because residual heartburn from the child we gave birth to 3 years ago and discuss our saggy boobs and adult onset acne.
Alternately, to our friends who have not yet been blessed with children and/or choose not to go down that very twisted path of having vomit shoot directly in your mouth by a human you gave life to (zero appreciation)… you do not yet know the value of silence and a clean shirt – well tank top, because you also sweat like a pig for absolutely no reason even in the dead of winter.
Imagine THAT – but all day. A walking PBS show, song and dance included. Everyday. And most days, your coffee gets lost in a room you only finally return to when the coffee has turned cold and useless. It’s completely unfair at the amount of energy a child’s tiny body has and they can’t share it. They can only explode it all over the house that you just cleaned, while screaming and begging for Goldfish.
I wear makeup only when I think I might see adults who I know it’s probably important for my husband’s image to appear like an adult myself, in front of. I may change from one set of pajamas into another just on principle and text how much I miss you
I just don’t want to go out. I don’t want to get dressed, make sure my house is in order to leave to my husband who is certainly more exhausted than I am, get in my car, realize I don’t have gas, get gas, pay some waiter to get my order wrong and sip an overpriced beverage only to uber home and avoid awkward small talk as long as humanly possible until I am BACK home, searching for makeup removal wipes and my contact case.
I have no FOMO – I’m more than happy to hear about it all the next day while I’m hiding behind a locked bathroom door trying to pee alone, without both kids and the dog cheering on my #2 and struggling to wipe discretely OR to get the paper out of my child’s hands so they don’t attempt to wipe for me.
You haven’t lived until that happens.
On the rare occasion that I DO pull myself together and dust off the heels that kill my feet and jeans that actually give my ass a chance at looking youthful… know it’s because you’re special to me. It’s not because I want to leave my house, because I don’t… trust me, finding a shirt that I didn’t wear a decade ago that also feels comfortable mom-sweating in is NOT my idea of fun. But, it’s because I know that my friends – parents or not – sometimes want to talk to me when I don’t have a greasy top knot. I understand you want to talk about important things like what happens on our new favorite show , the books we are trying to read and how we surely still “got” it.
In other words – I’m an introverted extrovert… or extroverted introvert?
I’m fucking lazy. And I earned it.