It’s been a lovely month for finding old friends, and I am feeling much more connected to the world, myself (past and future) thhanks to a couple of recent visits.
First, a late, weeknight drive into The City to see old friends reminded me what it’s like to casually move about, unencumbered, and free to eat, drink, and talk at midnight. It felt good. I didn’t want to leave. Three old friends and one new proved interesting, exciting, and accomplished. It was nice to see them, and the follow up two days later was particularly sweet, because a conversation begun became an actual adult interaction, even with Peanut in tow. Rather apocalyptic, because we were in the financial district after hours, and were really the only humans for several square blocks. Oh well.
So tack onto the post-theate reunion another visit from an ACT ghost this week and I feel quite pleased with my life. Shocking, I know, given the tone of most of my blogs. I thought finding my stage friends, with whom I connected creatively and celebrated nocturnally, would make me feel paralyzed in my current life. I thought seeing friends 10 years after we were all young and brash and creative would make me feel old and unfulfilled. Nope. I’m glad we had those days, annd I miss the stage, but I’m glad to have those friends, glad that our lives have sprouted dozens of facets we didn’t have before. We’re all more interesting, and maybe we’ll keep in touch for the next ten years.
I also visited a lovely writer in DC who made me feel less crazy, less stifled, less alone only because she’s just as crazy, stifled, and alone as I am at home. I know it sounds ridiculous to enjoy being frustrated that I can’t have a conversation because someone else’s kids make it nigh impossible to interact, but if feels reassuring that it happens to everyone with children. Something feels good about the universality of a deep sigh in the middle of a stream of “Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy listen look listen look why why why mommy mommy mommy.” It feels good to look sidelong at someone who is thoughtfully driving you to the airport while their kids shriek in the backseat, and to share a joint eye roll. Not because the situation is at all fun. Not because you both *swear* there were snacks in the car that disappeared somewhere between the loading, playdate pickup, and symbolic open road, but now need to listen to the understandable, if a bit shrill, begging for calories from the back seat. No, not my idea of a great time. And yet, my idea of a really, really great time. Because I am not alone. Bless the blogosphere and moms and titter and and all those books that remind us of that fact.
And bless the brilliant book I’m just beginning. Oh, boy oh boy you’re gonna love this book. I’ll tell you when it’s published, I swear, but this woman can freaking WRITE. Dang. Feels good to read so much. To read so much that I like. To read and feed myself so I can go home and know I have old friends and new friends and all manner of brain cells still firing. They cannot kill us, and even if they do not make us stronger, they make us different. And I guess there’s something to figuring out what in the heck they did make us. Are making us. and what we’re making ourselves. Snacks or no.