Archive for August, 2008

i live in a zoo

August 15, 2008

and look and smell like a monkey.

A thirty-two year old monkey.

NOT the kind of monkey with a blue and red butt. Those are gross.

I’ll be accepting gifts, cards, well-wishes, and accolades all day.

I woke up the other day and realized that the world at large probably considers me to be a real adult now. I even have a brand new car. Brand brand new. Not just brand new to me. Poor Miss Bruce has gone to the afterhours cagedance mostfabulous discotheque in the sky. Oh don’t worry, no major accidents and we are all fine, we just decided to put her down before she started suffering. It was the only humane thing to do.

I don’t think I look or act like thirty two, but I think I’ve established that I’m not familiar with how thirty two is supposed to look or act. Or any age for that matter. I work with some girls who look forty but their driver’s license puts them in their mid twenties. I work with some girls who I thought were born in the mid-seventies but they remember Vietnam. I think my friends all look twenty-three years old and one hundred and twenty-three pounds but maybe I just can’t see that the numbers have gone up a bit over the years.

I’m starting to understand what “you look just the way you did the day we met” means. I used to think it was a bunch of bull old people say to one another to make their peers feel less decrepit and dried up and repulsive.

It’s weird being older but not being old. Since having Jake more than a few people asked me what I think about being a young mother. Check out clerks and other moms and random weirdos on the bus mostly. I’ve been asked if I was the babysitter a few times. I don’t think it has to do with the way I look as much as it does the fact that I dress like an eighteen year-old frat boy and I don’t hesitate to run and jump and climb and play and make Indian (feather not dot) whoop whoop whooping noises at the park or crawl around on the sidewalk, chasing after bubbles with a fishmouth and taking toddler orders of what to draw with chalk. A lot (read:most) of the moms in my neighborhood just sit their fat asses on the park benches and front steps and yell bad words at their kids when the kids seem to be getting out of hand. It doesn’t matter how old they are, they just sit there and complain among themselves between tinny screams. It makes me want to puke that their children will be Jake’s schoolmates and Jake will ask to go to their houses (no). I get some side-glances from the quote-unquote other moms when I play with Jake, but I don’t let them bother me. I loved when my mom and dad rough housed with me, and I think Jake deserves the same. Hell, my arthritic grandma got down to play with me on the ground so I think Jake deserves the same. And she was waaayy older than I am now. She was way older than I am now when she had my dad, and I know she was a hardcore player back then too. I’ve seen pictures. And she wore dresses instead of Old Navy cargo shorts.

What the hell am I talking about right now? Who are you? What day is it? Who is the president? Where am I? Why am I strapped down to this bed? Is it 12.30 am or 12.30 pm? Where are my pants? Where are your pants? What are you doing with that gerbil? What kind of party is this? Is that horse shaved? How did a horse get in here?

Anyway, it’s weird and wonderful to get older.

If you see me, wish me happy birthday. And tell your friends I’m turning 35.

I look awesome for 35.