What I don’t get is how I’m a single early 30s chick living
in “the city” in my little yellow, purple, and green Williamsburg walk-through
and going out with wacky gay friends to bars with names like Dicks and The Cock
(as in rooster) and with cool-chick single gals to basement bars whose names
escape me now, and yet I’m a middle-aged mother living in Middle America with
mid-level income (maybe) and with two kids and a husband.
How did those two things happen in the same lifetime? A
lifetime that also included waking up as a 20something to my hipster
Minneapolis life of leisure in a rented room in somebody’s house on a frosted-over
freeze-breath day that might include a walk around the lake with Mike, then
over to Jen’s house to act out video dancing moves from a Sade video, including
a fake rebirth (at our height of new-age jest because the country was then at
its new-age height) and then a night at the Entry gladly inhaling secondhand
cigarette stink and the sounds of local band number 52 and pointing out cute
boys and worrying over my baby face and my small pig eyes and lack of eyebrows
and eyelashes (perennial too-blond crisis and, yikes, perennial just
autocorrected to peri-anal). And the joyousness of figuring out what to wear to
such events. I once attended a Timberwolves game and then walked over to the
Entry with Jen in a long turquois embroidered dress over a black slip with
black tights and, likely (though I don’t remember this for sure) high-top
Converse All-Stars. I wish I hadn’t thrifted back that dress. I think of it
monthly. I recently tried to buy its replacement on eBay to niggling reward.
And not to mention the late-twenties, when I lived in an
upper Duplex near Uptown (Minneapolis, again) with the three male comedians.
And then I bought a house nearby and became a landlord to two of the comedians.
And the mid-twenties, when I had a quarter-life crisis about
turning 25 (geez) and moved to Winona Minnesota to work two years as a cops and
courts reporter on a small newspaper and listened nightly to the polka hour emanating
from the basement of a Wisconsin-man’s home set-up. And was serenaded with the
beer–barrel polka by a boy standing on top of a table at an over-the-border
Wisconsin biker bar. And made a close group of misplaced from the city friends working
for peanuts and trying to pad our resumes in hopes of a one-day glamorous job
in an industry that no longer exists (newspaper journalism).
And then the early midlife crisis when I moved back here and
then two months and one week later met Dan and then one year and a couple of
months later found myself knocked up.
A landlord. A homeowner. A New Yorker. A mom.
How do we all fit all our lifetimes into one? It’s sad,
really, remembering so many lives, as if I were Morris the cat muttering to myself
about food. But I’m happy to have been all these things. And my hope is that
even as I’m a member of a family and a mom and a friend and daughter and all
those other roles I mostly always was, I’m still surrounded by characters and
still always morphing.
