Archive for February, 2011

I’ll hate myself in the morning.

February 16, 2011

Two days ago, my friend over at ima2seven forwarded me an invite to what looks like an amazing, free event in the city.

I haven’t been out in the city in a long time.

I really want to go.  I really SHOULD go.  It may not be Once In A Lifetime, but it’s a Long Time Coming.

I’m not going.

DH did not say it,  but I know he doesn’t want me to go.  He doesn’t want to say it, but I know he wants me to come to that conclusion on my own.  If I come to that conclusion on my own, it’s my own fault.

To be perfectly fair, I did get a lovely date with myself last Sunday.  Just about eight whole hours to myself, during which I drank coffee while it was (gasp!) still hot.  I went to a bookstore and read.  I passed a good half hour in a cosmetics store.  No diapers, no bathroom assists, no wandering fingertips smudging display cases.  I don’t remember the last time that happened.

So, the idea of taking off again in the middle of the week, missing pick-up, dinner, homework, and bedtime makes me feel more than a little guilty.

But I still want to go.

The panel is the third MetroImma Social Media Shmooze.  The theme: Food.  In attendance:  Grown ups!  I want to sample kosher food and sip wine and to remember the Professional I Once Was, to step back into the pre-Immah Me as if it were a costume I could put on at will.   I rationalize that Little Miss will be in school full-time soon, and part-time sooner than that.  The time is coming for me to go back to work.  It’s definitely time to start thinking about it.  A good time to start dipping my toes into a pool of social-networking Immahs.

And I want to go out with my friends and enjoy an (almost) free night on the town.

But I just can’t do it.

There are consequences to going.  If I go, I will return to a disgruntled, clingy family.  The sink will overflow with dirty dishes because no one unloaded the clean dishwasher.  The counters will be sticky, because I am the only one who believes a kitchen isn’t clean unless they are shiny.  Clean laundry will be slowly wrinkling in a giant tumble on the couch, waiting up for me, crying out to be folded.

Over one shoulder, Mini-Immah is actually SHOUTING at me.  “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME,  IMMAHLADY?  You should go.  You deserve to go.  Don’t let the man get you down.  Fight the power!  Have fun!  This chance does not present itself everyday.  And it’s free!”

On the other, a sweet little demure self is whispering, “Are you sure you want to?  It’s a school night.  It’s clear DH isn’t comfortable with you going.  Maybe you should just stay home.  You can plan something later.”  This demure lady is a cross between Donna Reed and the old widow everyone reveres in stories.  I want to shoot her.

It’s 3:26 PM.  The bus just left.  The decision has been made.  The road not taken is the NJ Turnpike.

But the baby just woke up, and I’m not the Me-I-Used-To-Be.  I’m the Me-I-Am-Now.  So I guess I better go get her.

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