Today I am going on a date.
ok…it’s not a date at all. It’s a personal training session. But it feels like a date.
And I wish I could explain! But then I was thinking, what if people were to ever meet this person? And they say Oh.. you’re so and so!! Meg wrote about you on her blog. And he looks at me and I look at him and I say ..SURPRISE!!! I made you famous! Haha?
…But really knowing that he now will forever view me as creepy blog girl who writes about him to an anonymous online mass readership before we potentially ever go on a real date. And I just really can’t have that. I’m already pretty awkward as it is. You can’t add creepy to awkward. Anyone who’s remotely close to socially intelligent knows this is a terrible deal-breaking combination. So, I will make a serious effort to avoid the Dear Diary aspect in my writing. But I had to say something. Because I’m only human. And I’m a girl.
Anyway, enough about that.
In other news, I have discovered the fountain of youth.
Yep, while all the rest of my demographic is out in their predetermined plywood desk cubicles, already beginning to settle into life with stock- bond-dividend- 401k- nestegg- 10 year plans all before a 9 pm bedtime, I am getting progressively younger.
Now before you get super excited to see 17 year old Meg, I have to tell you that physically, this particular fountain isn’t doing much.
(And THANK GOD, because my awkward stage went well through the age of 17)
psychologically, I now can honestly say, that in certain environments, I am 8 years old.
Because I kidnap children for money (and then return them).
..Which is a fun way to say I babysit for everyone in the plaza area.
I’m like Brookside’s neighborhood ice cube because I’ve been chillin’ at pretty much everyone’s house!
… see? 8 years old.
It’s not a terrible life. Sometimes I watch cats die and sometimes I experience children who have nuclear explosions in their pants (more on this later) but mostly, it knocks retail out of the water. And here is why:
– Can you name any other job on the planet that I get to sing Katy Perry songs on repeat into a mixing spoon until I learn all the lyrics verbatim? I mean, I do this kind of thing alone and I
usually never am getting paid for it (though I have suggested I should be multiple times). Now I’m not only getting money for behaving as I normally do, but my clients (7 year old girls) think I’m the best thing that has ever landed in their little lives. I’m their hero. If you’ve ever been anyone’s hero.. then you know it’s a wonderful feeling. I can tell you that when I brought someone a different size of pants at Anthro, their first reaction wasn’t, You’re my hero! It was probably more like, You are my bitch. And they’d probably be right.
– BEDTIMES. Kids go to bed at like 8. Parents don’t get home until midnight. Oh hey.. didn’t see ya there 4 hours of life that I am getting paid to merely exist and make sure the house doesn’t burn down. Just gonna hangout with my BFFs– Netflix, and the leather couch. Yeah scat Cat, you get out of here. You’ve heard about me.
– These five magical words:
“Help yourself to the fridge.”
Translation: FREE. FOOD.
Further translation: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
– And the best part? Repeat after me:
They. Are. Not. Your. Kids.
They are temporary! Temporary children are the best children. Yesterday, I was at Michaels Art and Crafts. Which by the way is the blackhole of arts and crafts stores. I was in there for a good hour just walking from aisle to aisle pretending I was Martha Stewart (who looked like Blake Lively) and decorating my imaginary house with my imaginary limitless credit card. It was so fun.
But anyway, there was this mom in there with SIX CHILDREN. For the love of God woman, just how Catholic are you?? It was a total massacre. These kids were everywhere. They were in everything. I was sort of impressed. But I also would have left them in the car. And I thought to myself. I could so babysit these terrors for a day. I could do it. I could put myself in the mindset, make it through every meal time and bedtime and survive. To make it to that big paycheck. But to own these kids (without payment no less) for the rest of your life?? Hollllllyyyy Birth Control Batman. No thanks! I appreciate moms on a whole new playing field now. I mean, I’m there for a day. Maybe a couple of days. So I can handle a temper tantrum or a bathtime where I get more soaked than the kid. Because I know it’s temporary. But parents are there day in and day out for YEAR UPON YEARS UPON YEARS. Seriously, call your mom right and thank her for changing your diaper. You’re lucky. Someone changed your diaper for you for free. If that’s not love.. I mean, it’s a special kind of love. I love Jimmy Fallon but I would never change his diaper. You get my point.
Anyway, I DO get paid. Which is why I still stand behind my belief: Temporary children.. are the best kind of children.
Because every job should have some perks right? But no job is perfect. And like any other profession, I have had some.. side effects.
You may be suffering from Nannynucleosis IF:
– You painted your nails in straight sparkles. And you think they look good. And you are 22.
– Your Bieber Fever is at an all time high. (Hello new christmas CD in my car! And all the proceeds go to charity. Bless you Biebs.)
– You know several songs from Yo Gabba Gabba.
-You know what Yo Gabba Gabba is.
– You have tried the majority of the baby food in the baby food aisle.
– You realize baby food falls pretty much under two distinct categories:
- The- “Why didn’t I think of this? This. is. BRILLIANT. I’m eating this one. You can have (see option 2)”
- The- Absolute shit. Peas and pears? Wtf? And you like this?
– You have changed a diaper so horrible that it seaped through the ten thousand diaper layers on to the one-sie the infant is wearing and you realize that the only way the outfit is coming off is over the kid’s head. And you apologize profusely as the screaming infant knocks out your eardrums because you know that ultimately this process will come down to getting this child’s diarrhea lava in it’s own hair. And let’s be honest, you would probably scream and sob too if you had your own shit in your hair. So you let the baby go into hysterics as you perform the inevitable and sit for twenty minutes afterward trying to sooth her knowing neither of you will ever be the same.
– You will have to therapy later in life because of above.
– You now think the word poopy used in the right context is hilarious. This also goes for any and all bodily functions.
– You have seen Despicable Me at least 6 times. And you’re ok with this.
– You get really sick. Like actually, throwing up and achy and feverish sick. You blame all the germ-carrying dirty children you have had contact with over the past month for giving you the plague. You almost die. You make plans to spend the rest of your life in a plastic sterilized bubble to save yourself from ever feeling this way again. You come out of your feverish haze and realize this is slightly unrealistic and settle instead on a gas mask and surgical gloves.
– You go to bed at 10. Not because you’re old and you’re being responsible but because you are so tired from playing spys and ninjas for five hours that your bed sounds like the perfect fortress to forfeit a victory on behalf of 5 year olds everywhere.
– You begin to miss a lot of weekends. You miss making toasts and walking in heels and happy hours and pregames and postgames and games in between. And Friday nights after bed times are really quiet. And you sometimes feel alone. Because you aren’t really 8. You’re 22. And you’re not that old. But you aren’t that young either. And you know what? You wouldn’t mind a date night either dammit!
But just before you start to feel sorry for yourself.. the 3 year old boy you’ve been hanging out with for the last few hours looks up at you, grabs your hand and tells you that he loves you.
And you think.. Ok. I can do this. At least for now. I can do this.
So, if you can relate to any or all of these symptoms, you probably suffer from a pretty common case of nannynucleousis. And what’s the cure? How do you make it stop?
Someday, I’ll have a 9-5 job right? And I’ll sit somewhere in a board meeting staring off into space thinking about how I wish I was still wishing on imaginary stars in my blanket fort surrounded by stuffed animals and graham crackers crumbs.
So, I could tell you the cure to eternal youth.. but I guess then I’d have to ask myself– do I really want to? I choose to appreciate this time in my life. It’s not perfect. But today I’m somebody’s hero. And a little boy told me he loved me.
And for now, I guess that’s enough. Because honestly?
I kind of like being 8 years old again.