Friday, February 19, 2010
I've been a pretty social person these last couple months. I think it started with all the insane visiting during the holidays and shuffling back and forth from tables of food, arms of relatives, toasts, resolutions. I suppose it left me with an excess of momentum, which I never previously experienced as a lifelong hermit. Up until December, eventful nights for me were junk food, 30 Rock and maybe a whooppie sesh with the husband. That was until I inadvertently made the resolution to take back my social life. I figured I owed it to myself after oh, 3 or so years of social ineptitude/ambivalence.
Of course, being a mother I'm oft plagued with the 'ol maternal guilt. Am I hurting him by going out once a week or so? Does he miss me? Am I being selfish? I usually leave after tucking Jack in bed, after reading him "Goodnight Moon" for the umpteenth time, safe, sleeping under the watch of his father. I don't want him to know I'm not going to be here to squash any monsters that arise in dreams.
After mulling it over, guilt tripping myself, talking about it with Greg and friends and in-law's and the neighbors cat, I think I've let it go. I think that I've finally allowed myself to have more feelings outside of our safe, cozy, familial nook.
I go out because sometimes I like to feel the bass, the kick drum, the energy of a friend's band vibrating through the room. I go out to laugh at things people say, in real life, rather than the internet. I go out to lose my equilibrium for a few hours, find it again and nurse it back to health, tonight I'm my own baby. I go out for autonomy. I go out to see faces I haven't seen in days, months, years. But more than that, I go out to come back in. To take off foot crippling heels and put on pajama's and to feel a sense of relief instead of the contempt of monotony. To look at sleeping faces and feel like I'm home. To feel like maybe next weekend 30 Rock, junk food and whooppie sesh's are exactly what the doctor ordered.
I think every mom, woman, deserves that. Guilt-free, judgment free. Have your vodka, your cake. May your "walk of shame" be to the crib and the coffee maker.