My twenties were amazing. And horrible. At the the same time. I lived in New York with no money, too many roommates (and roaches!) and spent my days chasing my dreams and breaking my heart. Like most, I was riddled with insecurities, fearful of the future and flat broke, but, looking back, that was half the fun. My friends and I were undignified, inappropriate and a hell of a good time.
One particularly memorable night while heading home, two guys pulled up asking my roommates and I to hang out. It was 3 a.m.. I think we all know what kind of "hanging out" they had in mind. We certainly wouldn't be playing Parcheesi. After denying them several times and walking away only to be followed by their car, my friend, many drinks deep, blurted out, "You wouldn't want to hang out with us we're... we're... THIR-TY!"
We were actually 25. But, apparently the most offensive, repulsive deterrent she could think of at the time was that we were the big 3-0. Not we're married, gay, have boyfriends, an infectious disease... No simple "no thank you," not even a "Go to hell." Nope. Thirty.
Fast-forward 10 years and we are, well, well past 30. Comfortably settled into our fourth decade, no longer roommates -- those roles are reserved for our brave husbands and new little, milk-devouring, boogie-covered tenants -- but still the best of friends.
We met up the other day for lunch and a play date. Navigating the streets with our strollers and fussy infants was quite the departure from our previous hijinks. We were still menaces to society, but this time, taking people out with our overly-wide wheels instead of shaky heels. But not one look our way, at least not in an affectionate way. The glances we did receive displayed either irritation or pity.
Me in my maternity jeans (Yes, still. They're comfy! And I can eat more! Moving on...) with dirty hair and dark circles, her looking fantastic but with a 20 lb. drooling (and adorable!) appendage strapped to her front. Not necessarily the open invitation.
Neither one of us had trouble in the past getting attention. It wasn't always from the highest caliber of suitor, but it was attention nonetheless. Even when I was pregnant, a time you'd think I'd be at my utmost man-repellant-ness, I attracted, how shall I say it, a certain demographic. But now that I'm a new mom, nada.
Perhaps it's because I've never been less interested. Perhaps I'm being kind to myself and my hellish-looking looks.
Whatever the case, it appears my friend had it wrong all those years ago. She shouldn't have said we were 30, she should've said we were MOMS.