He laughs (thank God he laughs – sometimes people come to the front row to heckle you), so I continue my riff, “I’m the one that says (and I break into a Midwestern suburban voice) I just love that Bacardi girl, you know that song she sings? I don’t dance now, I make moooo-ney moves.”
And then I make Cardi B’s signature pigeon sound, but with a very WASPy edge. The crowd goes nuts laughing.
“So, yeah, I’m a mom. And obviously it’s my calling, life’s fulfilling, wouldn’t trade them for the world, blah, blah, blah. But it’s also really hard. I mean, parenthood is tough. I sometimes wonder if mama birds don’t so much kick the baby birds out of the nest to help them fly or because they just can’t deal with the sulky chirping for one more fucking day…”
As I begin my monologue about parenting, I look out at the audience, relieved to find Alex’s new boyfriend, John, laughing at everything I’m saying. I think she’s got a winner there (and not just because he laughs at my jokes). Michelle, too, with her "don’t you dare call him a boyfriend" Nick, his hand on her knee, looking over at her shyly, clearly wondering if he can sneak a kiss. The two of them are looking more at each other than me, and that’s fine. That’s how love should be in the first few months.
It’s just that what I have now is even better.
“…and like it’s the mama bird’s fault the world is full of cats. And does she get ANY appreciation for all the worms? No. Plus, the birdies never like how she serves the worms, either dusted with a hint of dirt, or pureed into a half eaten smoothie. Then one birdie has just announced she’s suddenly a vegetarian and will no longer eat worms, she needs to eat berries…”
I monologue for another few minutes, finishing with the punch line, “So, fellow bird sluts out there, (and into the WASP Mom voice) peace out!”
And that’s it for me. I exit the stage the way everyone should get to leave their job: to a sea of clapping hands.
But the applause isn’t what I came here for, because it doesn’t really matter. Yes, it is awesome. Of course it is. But it doesn’t matter because, for the first time in years, I’m not looking outward trying to get validation. I am feeling it on the inside, and who cares what the rest of the world thinks?
Which is a good way to feel, and just in time, too. Because I wouldn’t know it until the next day, but Tom saw my set. And he sends me a Facebook post around midnight:
You killed it baby. So proud of you. Je t’aime.
I’ll admit, a smile crept onto my face as I read that...
And hit Delete.
He was right. I did kill it. And I didn’t need a man to tell me that.
A little over a month ago, a life coach asked a group of fortysomething women, “What do you want from your life? When you're sitting in your rocking chair fifty years from now, will you have done everything you wanted to do? Will you be the person you wanted to be?”
I now know my answer: I want to have raised two really good, smart, loving people. I want to be able to look at pictures of that week in my life when, on a whim, I went to the Louvre and spent an entire day just zoned out in the room full of Monet’s Haystacks. I want to have memories of being back on stage, doing stand-up. And I don’t want to be in a rocking chair. I want to have my head on Carlos’ chest, watching old game show reruns, still having “bed day."
It may have taken me half a lifetime, but I am, finally, the person I want to be.
Michelle
When I look back, I want to have had a happy divorce, and well-adjusted kids who remember that family is about love, not blood. I want my paintings to outlive me. Maybe I will have wanted a second marriage. Maybe not. I probably will not have done everything I wanted to do because, for the first time in years, I’ve realized that there is still so much I want to do. Seriously, there is so much out there in this world, and some days we forget that. But even in middle age, the number of possibilities is still dizzying: and it’s time for me to start pursuing a few of them.
Alexis
Oh, how the fuck do I know? How do any of us know really? But I’m having a lot of fun trying to find out.
About the Author
KIM GRUENENFELDER lives in Los Angeles with her husband and son and continues to avoid anything even remotely resembling a real job.
Cover design by Brian Smith
Cover illustration by Santiago Panes II
Author photo by Carol Campbell
Hangovers & Hot Flashes Page 32
