I’ve been thinking a lot about my trip last weekend to Assachusetts. It was great to see my girlfriends, Vulvodynia and Andy, and learn about their vaginal conditions. We laughed, we cried, we talked about our vaginas—what’s better than that?
The thing is, I almost didn’t go because I was annoyed with Andy. Up until last weekend, she’d been asking me to get together—without Junior. And she wasn’t subtle about it. Instead of, “Hey, how about a girl’s night out?” she’d email me: “How about a girl’s night out without Junior? You can come visit alone and we can hang out without the kid. How about driving up, just YOU?”
That peeved me. I work full-time and my weekends are Junior Time; nothing interferes with that. Nothing.
So I wrote back, “I GET IT. You’d like to see just me.”
She replied, “Sorry. Yes.”
I ranted to Chuck: “How dare she email me that? How could she be so—”
“—Honest? Go to Assachusetts. I can count on one hand the number of times in the last three years you’ve spent the night at your friends’.”
Chuck was right. I needed to embark on a “me time” journey.
I hate that saying, and I hate the concept. It seems so...pink and fluffy and cliche. And let’s be honest, it’d be easier to take guilt-free “me time” if I didn’t work. Then, time away from Junior would be just that, instead of being MORE time away from Junior. The last thing I want to bring to my life is more time away from Junior, even if it means I’m a nicer, better person.
But come on, Mrs. Mullet, five hours isn’t going to kill anyone.
As for Andy, there was nothing wrong with that fact that she wanted to hang out with me without Junior. Imagine that! Adult time without breaks for diaper changes or sippy cup spills or meltdowns. How could she not want that?
The thing is, people need friends. Moms and dads, people without kids, aliens—even Ryan Seacrest needs friends. And that’s ok. I have to cut myself some slack. I have to stop watching the clock and tallying up the time Junior and I spend together to make sure it’s enough. I can’t be with him as much as I want, but until Chuck finds a full-time job (Chuck, can you hurry the fuck up?), I can’t fix that. Our relationship won’t flounder because I spend one weekend a year (or, gasp, two) with my friends.
Jesus. The guilt. The drama. The inner turmoil. The maxi pads!
Yes—that’s a maxi pad teabag. It was for my friend Vulvodynia’s tea. When she brought it back to the table I laughed until I cried.
Corny “Sex in the City” conclusion: It was a good thing I went. In fact, I may even go again.
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