Apparently, the planets have aligned, the stars have crossed, and a ritual sacrifice of a Polly Pocket or two (RELAX, one of them was already missing her left arm and the other one bore an off-putting resemblance to Mickey Rourke) has been made, for we have a babysitter. This is a rare occurrence, so rare that Adam and I are downright stymied by how to fill a full six hours of evening. All day, as we’ve been in the car or at the grocery store or eating lunch at the kitchen counter, we’ve been trying to make a plan, yet it’s as if the sheer abundance of options has somehow stifled our decision-making ability.
I think we’ve settled on where to eat, since we finally identified a place that meets both our Date Restaurant Requirements. For Adam, this means the establishment employs a bartender whom he can merrily pester and badger and try to stump with his requests for arcane gins and boutique bitters. For me, this means there is not a child in sight. I am nothing but easy to please. Maternal, too.
It’s been so long since we’ve been out alone that I had forgotten that there is more to Date Night than the Date. Wearing something besides jeans, for instance. I wandered upstairs a while ago and started pushing hangers around and pulling open drawers, ever hopeful of finding a fantastic outfit that I already owned but had totally forgotten about, kind of like happens on the makeover shows except that those people are models anyway and reality television continues to screw with me.
I was rifling through one of the drawers when my fingers suddenly tangled in the straps of something. It was only after cocking my head to the side and squinting really hard that I recognized it for what it was: a push-up bra. After gently removing the layers of dust, I tried it on and found it does indeed improve the shirt I was hoping to wear. There is also a slight chance that it makes me look like an overage teenage hooker, but I choose to ignore that part. If anyone at the restaurant says anything, I plan on knocking them flat on their back with my cleavage. Especially if it’s a kid.
So! I came down with a slight cold this week! And guess what I suddenly remembered!
!!!
SUDAFED IS THE GREATEST CREATION EVER!
Seriously, you guys. Have you had a Sudafed lately? The real stuff, with the actual pseudoephedrine? The thing is like a miracle drug. My appetite, normally a raging monster that can sense refined sugar within two miles, has virtually disappeared. And while I still may be unable to smell anything, or even, you know, breathe that well, MAN DO I HAVE ENERGY.
I was down to only one dose when the cold set in, so a trip to the drugstore was in order. As I was showing my driver’s license to the pharmacist (you know, so they could record my name and track my Sudafed purchases and OH GEORGE ORWELL WERE YOU ON THE MONEY), I leaned toward her conspiratorially. “I don’t blame you for being careful,” I murmured, drumming my fingers on the counter while bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. “This stuff is SO GOOD it’s no wonder people buy it to make crystal meth.”
Luckily, she had just handed me the box when I delivered that last line, so I didn’t get to see the worried look on her face, or witness how she ran out to the parking lot to copy down my license plate number. I just drove on home, one hand on the wheel while the other popped those beautiful scarlet tablets from their cozy foil-wrap enclosure. “NO MORE FOIL FOR YOU, SUDAFED!” I howled at top volume. “IT’S ALL ME NOW!”
Sadly, the cold appears to be on its way out, so I’ve only had a couple of doses today. But I knew there was still a little bit of the magic coursing through my veins this afternoon, while attending Aura’s class pool party. Another mother casually asked if Adam and I were planning to have any more kids, a query that usually produces a frenzied mishmashed reply of GOD NO NEVER AGAIN WHY WOULD YOU EVEN ASK. But today, hyped on the good stuff and harboring enough energy to power a reactor and potentially take care of two children, I answered, “Maybe. It might be nice.”
On second thought, perhaps Sudafed should be illegal.
THE TOP TWO WAYS I KNOW I’M NOT A GIRLY ENOUGH GIRL
#1: Facial Hatred
Sometime last month, I scheduled a long overdue facial, determined to finally use the spa gift card I had received two Christmases earlier. As I was leaving for the appointment, Adam innocently said, “Have fun!”
“LIKE THAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN!” I hissed, giving the door an extra firm slam on my way to the garage.
It occurs to me that I may have a genetic mutation in my girl code, some tangled bit of DNA that makes it impossible for me to enjoy any kind of spa service. I still go, because I’m vain and shallow and self-absorbed, yet it feels off somehow to pay someone else to clean my skin, to have another woman frown sternly at the same pores I frown sternly at every night in the bathroom mirror.
And then there’s the conversation compulsion. Sit me in a reclining chair and slap a eucalyptus mask on me and I am suddenly the World’s Chattiest Person. I suspect this is connected to the weird guilt thing—someone else is sloughing off my dead skin cells and I should therefore reciprocate any demonstration of personal interest.
In that chair, I put Pulitzer-winning investigative journalists to shame, following up on every conversational lead, ekeing out gritty details I never really needed to know. At this last appointment, I determined where the aesthetician’s daughter went to school, the location of her son’s girlfriend’s cousin’s bakery, her preferred choice of seafood markets, and also her biggest pet peeve about her husband (damn snoring). If I had tacked on a bikini wax I would have had time to get her Social Security number, but that would have used up the gift card entirely and I’m too cheap for that.
By the time I was done, I was exhausted. Honestly, I’m not sure a well-maintained T-zone is worth all that.
#2: Choice in Sleepwear
Once every so often, perhaps while walking by a Victoria’s Secret or watching a lingerie-centric scene in True Blood, I’ll ponder why it is that I own so little delicate nightwear. How is it that my drawers are so light on the lace, yet so heavy on the fleece and practical cotton? At what point in my 32 years did I abandon all pretense of femininity after 10:00 p.m.? I fear this is further proof of the girly-girl gene gone wrong.
Don’t believe me? Fine, photographic evidence it is. I present to you tonight’s sleepwear, in all its t-shirty glory:
Sigh. I TOLD you. Now I’m off to paint my toenails or pick wildflowers or something else…girlish. Obviously, I need the practice.
and then kate 