Getting back to the root of blogging with uninterrupted, narcissistic rambling.
It’s funny how people change. Usually when I think about anyone changing, I picture something drastic and obvious like a new haircut or moving across the country to find some sort of Carrie Bradshaw love. But then recently I’ve been noticing the slower changes; people changed by spouses, surroundings, age. I’ve noticed it in myself the most. I’m more nonchalant, indifferent, I care less about what people think, and not in an awesome kind of way. I think it’s mostly apathy. Someone said motherhood would change me into a different person, but I only feel more like myself. Or at least, a truer version of myself. Waylon has made me tougher, sure. Softer too. I guess I should be thankful for that.
I went on a walk by myself the other day. The baby was down for a nap and Austin was home, so I walked a few blocks alone to see what it would feel like. I forgot my phone. I wish I could say I left it behind on purpose, but I didn’t. As I was walking, I realized it was the first time I was truly alone in a long, long time. No phone, no Internet, no baby, no fetus floating in my gut. It was weird. I felt a vague sense of déjà vu, like I had done this before. I saw myself at ten years old, twelve, sixteen. I floated outside my body for a bit. Afterward, I realized that if you’re having a cathartic experience over a walk alone–maybe you should change a few things.
I have exactly six shirts that fit right now. The trouble with baby-making is that your body gets weird. Nine months later, I’m still using that excuse. I want to buy clothes, but I lack the mental energy to do so. I know this is very un-womanly of me. You might suggest I bring a friend, but then I run the risk of having to properly handle a fashion conversation. I am the opposite of fashion savvy. Is there a word for that? I don’t understand when people say, “Oh, I could never wear that color.” I literally don’t understand the words they are saying. What do you mean you can’t wear yellow? Why not? Should I be concerned that I can’t wear a certain color? I think this general misunderstanding of fashion should be added to the list of reasons why I am not an adult. Not quite yet.