Because of my current condition, my life seems to be narrowing down into a funnel.
"Like sand through the hourglass, so our the days of our lives." That is truly deep.
Now I look at myself within the parameters of two things:
B.B. - Before Baby
A.B. - After Baby
B.B. is the gloriousness of a free life, sleeping till whenever I feel like it on the weekends, though I'm an early bird anyway, so I'm almost always up and puttering around the house by 7:30.
B.B. is partying till dawn, drinking tequila shooters and dancing on tables. Though I'm usually in bed by 9pm with a cup of Sleepytime tea and a book with two cats. And I don't drink tequila anymore, not since high school when I had an unfortunate incident with Jose Cuervo.
I have also once danced on a table. Just once. I think it was at Dick's Last Resort in Dallas. I have to say that dancing on tables is overrated. It might have been more exciting if I had been naked with people throwing money at me. They'd probably would throw money at me to put my clothes back on.
B.B. means spending my weekends and evenings doing whatever I feel like, whenever I feel like.
B.B. means eating strawberry rhubarb pie for breakfast because I can and I don't need to worry about any kind of example I might be setting. Which I did this morning. It was good!
Needless to say, I'm terrified of everything that A.B. entails. But mainly terrified of one BIG thing.
I love to sleep. I love it the way alcoholics love booze. The way a fat kid loves cake. When I get up in the morning and get dressed before I go downstairs I give one more lingering look at my bed. The white down comforter, the fat goose down pillows with the 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. It looks so good to me I almost drool with the pleasure to think that in only 13 hours I can be back in it.
Sometimes I daydream about sleeping.
I get a good eight-nine hours of sleep a night. So when people comment to me, "Wow, you don't LOOK 33 at all!" I know the reason why I don't. Sleep.
That also begs the question of what of 33 year-old should look like. I have no idea because I usually forget how old I am. Most of my life I've run around with the strange feeling that I'm still only twelve years old, which was brought to light on a conversation Matt and I had when the nuclear baby bomb was dropped.
Me (whining): But I can't be a parent!
Me: Because I'm so immature!
Matt: You are?
Me (covering my face in my hands and crying): I still laugh at fart jokes...
Matt (laughing): You do do that!
Me (snorting): You said do-do.