This is so much cheaper than therapy...

So it turns out I have virtually no friends. Alright, I also have absolutely no license (yes still, asshole, but that's another story. Fucking cones...) which makes it an understandable pain the ass for the handful of remaining friends I have to come see me out here. But let's disregard that fact for a moment and focus on the real problem at hand (besides the DMV's insane obsession with the health and safety of its cone collection): My precious few friends and I are rapidly losing all common ground. Okay, besides the fact that a couple of them also have vaginas and one of them is even brown (the girl, not her vagina. Although that prolly is, too-- I've just never had the privilege of seeing it), it seems like more and more, all the stuff we had in common is going the way of my virginity, my waistline, and my youth.

It was a whole lot easier to relate in the first trimester when we could fondly recount late nights spent blowing chunks into the bushes outside of Burger King or tell stories of early mornings curled up in the fetal position in bed, totally drained of energy and fighting a skull pounding headache. Sure, their misery stemmed from one too many games of flip cup while mine was the direct result of being knocked up... but at least we had something. Now, it seems like there isn't a single part of our lives that matches up. I'm practically married and don't even own a box of condoms anymore. While most of them are still hooking up with whichever slightly attractive finance major stumbles past their dorm room door or whatever cute skirt wanders into their job at the mall. My typical weeknights involve food shopping and reruns of Mystery Diagnosis while dear husband checks the fantasy football stats. Theirs include classes, parties, rehearsals, and frequent outings to various clubs across the orlando area. They work lame jobs while pursuing big careers and blow their paychecks on movie tickets and going out clothes. Me? My job includes baskets of someone else's dirty drawers, researching lactation counselors, and the occasional nap. And pay? Ha. Just an entirely bill-free existence and the occasional big, sushi dinner date.

But would I change the way I'm living? Of course not. I'm incredibly happy and I don't regret a damn thing about the way my life's turning out. It's just... well it's kind of lonely over here in Grownup Town. I long for someone under the age of thirty to talk to about weird new hairs and sex with a bump or husbands who work a lot and fear of skidmarks in the laundry. All the pregnancy books say that the best thing to do is join a support group for pregnant bitches... but something tells me that the kinds of women who join those groups are the very last kinds of women I want to be friends with. You know the ones. The ones with "Matty's Mom" bedazzled across their velour track suits, the ones who will eventually save their kids crusty umbilical cord stump for the enormous baby book that they've been working on since before the pee dried on their pregnancy test, the ones who tear up at Playskool commercials and have already furnished and decorated their nursery's complete with a "Whimsical Farmyard" theme. Those pregnant bitches. Ew. What I want is a support group for pregnant bitches who are more upset about not being able to have a drink (or three) after a particularly long talk with yet another advice filled nosy neighbor than the fact that there were no more spots open at their local Mommy and Me. The kind that still swear like a sailor, even in Baby Depot because "Holy shit, $3,000?! It's just a fucking crib!" The kind that haven't registered for Lamaze class yet and only felt guilty about deciding against cord blood banking for about thirteen seconds when they realized that kind of money could buy them a much needed solo vacation to Tahiti for the kid's first birthday.

So quick, somebody find me a group like that and I promise I'll stop driving all my friends mad with endless anecdotes about what I learned on a Baby Story and how saline nose spray saved my sex life. Otherwise, I'm just gonna have to start poking holes in all their condoms and switching out their birth control pills for mini Altoids.

...See if i won't.

With love and a side of bitter resentment,
a.