Let’s start this with a Thursday when I went to visit my friend who is a proud owner of a one-year-old, meaning a child. I’ll be honest; I have mixed feelings about children. Not children in general, I’m fine with those. Especially the ones that can already talk because the most random and bizarre things come out of their mouths. Truly entertaining, if you ask me. But let’s just say I have not yet had an urgent need to reproduce and give this world another version of me. One’s enough.
And then, when I have a rare, confused thought that motherhood is the topic to consider, I go visit my friend. I get the latest updates on child growth and development, issues to face and problems to avoid, as well as various parenting techniques currently on the market. Which I listen to intently because none of them apply to my life. And I walk away thinking, I really don’t believe I have the right to complain about anything. One problem that will disappear from your life is the question of decorating your living room because most of your furniture will look like this.
Advise to take away from this. Do have a friend with a kid. It’s practically free (because how can you not occasionally spend money on tiny, ridiculous, baby outfits) and effective way to get your ‘parenthood fix’.
Then Friday came. Exhausted but determined for the weekend I came home and fell into an unscheduled, troubled nap. And would probably be completely at peace in such condition, but was rudely awaken by a friend (this is a different person now) and shamed into getting together for at least couple of drinks. Because it’s FRIDAY night and you know, it will like never happen again until the next Friday, which means a whole set of additional 7 days. Unthinkable. To put this story short. The evening ended at some night hour after a good amount of kitchen talk and guitar singing.
I’m utilizing my awesome Paint powers here because she was not happy with the way she looks. If you’d see the original photo, you wouldn’t blame her.
Most of the Saturday was spent in a rehabilitation mode. Until hunger got the best of me and I went out for dinner with some friends. One thing led to another, and there we were driving in a yellow submarine (which was actually a cab, but might as well have been a submarine for us) to an exclusive Manhattan nightclub, which probably defines every Manhattan nightclub as all of them claim to be super exclusive. I was assured by my companions, this one’s different. It’s wasn’t. We went to Cioelo in the meatpacking district and it turned out to be closed off premises with alcohol and dancing people. Which for me is pretty regular. Music was good, so there’s that.
P.S. To leave you with something thought provoking and scandalous watch this movie Only Lovers Left Alive. Not much scandal to it, it just happens to be really good.