New Humans June 30, 2008

Ever since I turned thirty I’ve been a little sensitive about getting older. I’m not in my twenties anymore. People in their twenties go out to clubs, and they drink a lot and sleep around. Okay, well, at least that’s what I did. In my twenties I got carded at liquor stores and hit on at bars. I got crazy looks from folks on the bus when people overheard my young son refer to me as “mom” rather than “big sister”, because I pretty much looked like a teenager.

But now that I’m thirty, it’s like the world instantly knows I’m an adult. No one questions the fact that I have a son going into first grade. No one cards me when I try to buy liquor. And I haven’t been getting hit on, like, at all. Some dude at the bus stop the other day asked me if I had a man and I just ate that shit up! I even called my fiance to brag. Yeah. That’s how I roll.

Thirty just doesn’t have what twenty had for some reason. I’ve actually been forced to come to grips with the fact that I am not immortal, I am going to pay for all those good times with wrinkles on my face, and I will grow beautiful gray streaks in my hair. Possibly soon. Now I do understand that I am nowhere near close to old age, or even middle age. I’m only thirty. But something happens at thirty. I’ve become…aware of myself.

So tonight we rented two movies. One was Spiderwick Chronicles for my son, though I highly suggest you watch it even if you’re not six. The other was 10,000 B.C. As a history major minoring in Classical studies I have been dying to see this movie, regardless of the fact that the term is “B.C.E.”, not “B.C.”. Yeah, I know. Semantics. I haven’t watched it yet because I wanted to type this blog.

My son saw the DVD case laying out on the coffee table and asked if we were going to watch it after he went to bed. “Yeah,” I said. “Why, do you want to watch it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I saw the commercials and it doesn’t look that scary.”

“Well, maybe we’ll watch it tonight and I’ll tell you how it is, then maybe you and I can watch it tomorrow?” That suggestion seemed acceptable. But he wanted an explanation as to what it was about. Oh man. I’m not sure how to explain the passing of millennia to a six year old. But I tried. I tried to explain how this is 2008, and he was born in 2001, and I was born in 1977, and you keep backing down to 0. This is when you go from the common era, C.E., back into before the common era, B.C.E. And if you back up far enough, you reach 10,000 B.C.E.

Okay, this didn’t make much sense to him. So then I reminded him of the whole “we used to be apes” thing. After apes came humans, and then came civilizations. The first humans like us started cities and raised their families in them in 10,000 B.C.E. Mesopotamia, now the Middle East. Right? Does this make sense? This is when the movie takes place.

I don’t think my son quite understands the passing of years yet, or the impact it has on our lives.

“Were you there in 10,000 B.C.?” he asked. Oh, no! No no! I wasn’t there, and I told him I wasn’t. I made it quite clear that I’m only thirty. I’m only thirty! Got it?

I told him no, that I’m only thirty and there have been humans for 10,000 years.

“Was I there?” he asked.

I told him no. He’s only six. I told him he’s one of the new humans.

“Yeah!” he said. “I’m a new human!” He was so delighted! “Like you! You’re a new human too! Cuz you’re only thirty!”

Ahh. Hell’s yeah. I’m only thirty! I’m a new human! Humans have been on this planet for 10,000 years, and I’ve only been here for thirty of them. Rock on with me, new humans! Rock on!

I heart my belly fat, and why I’m showing it off at work today. June 25, 2008

I have this belly fat. It’s like a jello-y bulge that makes itself known in every shirt I have. It’s noticeable enough that I occasionally get asked if I am pregnant. My answer: “No, just fat.” Or: “I had my baby six years ago, this is just his leaving-the-womb present.” Or: “Yeah, I’m pregnant to a six-pack of tacos and too many margaritas.” I’m not offended by people saying this. It’s totally alright. I have skinny arms, skinny legs, I’m tall, and I have this protruding belly. So I just do my best to come up with witty one-liners. Sometimes I do wish I could wear some of those cute tops that show your belly button, but trust me, no one wants to see that.

Which brings us to the yard sale up the street. Some woman has been sitting on the front steps of her apartment building with a clothes rack and a jumble of shoes. Every time I ride by on my bike she shouts at me: “Come check out some of these clothes.” Well, I took pity on her the other day. She looked lonely, and I was also a little tired of getting yelled at, to be quite honest. When I approached her, she smelled like vodka, and she looked at me like vodka. She picked up this very cute plum-colored shirt and said “Here this’ll look nice on you. You like this, right?”

I looked at the tag only to find a giant S emblazoned on it. “Oh, this is small, I’m a medium to large at least. It’ll never fit.”

She looked me up and down like a tailor. “Oh it’ll fit, here take it. Two dollars.”

Well, now, how can I argue with that logic? I gave her a couple bills and walked on home. The tiny purple shirt sat on my bedroom floor for a few days until I decided to wash it. Today it made itself apparent to me in my drawer. I had completely forgotten about it. “Hey,” I thought. “There’s that drunk lady’s shirt.” I pulled and stretched it on, and walked out into the living room to show it off to Mitch.

“Do you think this is too tight?” I asked, knowing he would give me the answer that was the truth rather than the one he thought I would want to hear. His response, “I dunno. Looks fine to me.” Well, at least I know that was exactly what he thought.

In the car, the bottom edge of the shirt surprisingly popped up and there was belly fat, stretch marks and all. “See, it is too small, isn’t it?” Mitch only shrugged. He didn’t really care, I could tell. I’m sure my concern confuses him.

When Mitch dropped me off at work, I would estimate that I pulled down the bottom of my shirt close to ten times before I actually got to my desk. And now, here I am, at my desk, typing this blog with my baby belly fat hanging out to the world.

Yes, the shirt is too tight. Not so tight that I can’t get by, however. I think if I was in slightly better shape it would fit just fine. But for the moment, my belly’s exposed. And it’s alright. My son gave me that fat, therefore I love it! And that is why, if you see me today, I’m probably flashing you. I hope you enjoy it!