Recently I’ve been living in a parallel universe. A place where I am a portly – but beautiful – social butterfly and I have this weird desire to fill my weekends up with social engagements until both Saturday and Sunday are positively brimming with people, places … big purple dildos, far-from-sobering sangria, live theatre tickets and plates upon plates of proud, perky benedicts. I am talking busy to a point where I don’t even see my husband or my kid; I just harass them via text message while living the glitzy, jet set life of a socialite. Sounds grand doesn’t it?

It’s exhausting. There is a reason why I am not “this” girl. After three weekends of shenanigans just like those I described, I was out of money, depressed and listless. Why do people do this? Make friends, go for drinks, eat, drink more drinks, eat again and talk talk talk like they mean something but never say anything at all? I knew I wasn’t missing shit in high school by not being popular. Being a social fatterfly is downright misrepresented to the anti-social public and not for me.

Oh all right, that’s just me stretching my bitch muscles, my serpent’s tongue and tapping into my talent of stringing one word on to the tail of another … this past few weeks have not left me that kind of bitter. For one, the people I was eat, eat, eating with and drink, drink, drinking with are friends, both old and new, but I did find myself feeling a tad strange and out of place a handful of times.


In the end, or each time I walked back home from a friendly brunch or a neighbourhood sex toy party, I felt the inner stir of emotions that I ceaselessly try to keep deep within. Currently, I am surrounded by people who are living lives nothing like my own. It used to be that I had a community around me that was living similar to how I was constructing my own cobblestone path. Friends back home were getting married, having babies, raising kids and so on. I hadn’t realised moving to the big city meant a change in community mentality. People out here tend to be a bit more adventurous and ambitious, maybe consciously choosing family and kid later on in life. It is not a hard and fast rule of course … just something I perceive from where I sit and watch but because of this, me living like a lone wolf out here, when I find myself in the centre of a bunch of single girls living more freely than I can just now, I turn the observation inward.

It’s never a question of being unhappy with being a mom and wife. I love my life. But it is impossible not to be seduced by your friends’ open schedules, new adult careers, expensive apartment accoutrements and new sexual relationships. Yes, I have the golden ticket of marriages and really, my point is not to disparage that fact. It’s just some times, on some days, when faced with a temperamental mini Thor who think he runs your life … you escape and think “what if …” what if there is more than just this?


There was one moment in particular that really got inside my head and fucked with me emotionally for a few days. You wouldn’t expect that during a heart warming meet-up with old friends that you would uncover a sore spot, a hotbed of emotional turmoil but pah-ha! No, that’s the perfect platform for life to have its fun and give you a swift kick in the metaphorical lady brass and bring you down a peg. But there it was, cropped up in the middle of an innocent chat, like a blemish on date night (or for us married folk, like a blemish blowing up on your arse on your pre-established, kid-free doing-it night.) All my life since David Bowie’s greatest hits 1969 – 1996 album and my American Graffiti record, music has been my mecca. You could ask anyone, and they’d all tell you the same. I not only knew my music trivia, I knew the history and I knew all the relevant acts of the moment. It was my first love; my pride, it went with me everywhere and made up the integral elements of my personality. Not to mention got me through adolescent struggle, solidified an adult relationship between my dad and I and more than once saved my life … but that is a story for another blog.

Over our beers, my friend heard me say something about Canadian music and mistook it for me insinuating that Canada didn’t create much listenable music – something which I couldn’t think is less true – but as I was bombarded with questions, I found my usually sassy sharp tongue lagging and my brain too exhausted to give the kid whiplash with my epic musical knowledge. In one moment I was reminded I am not that girl anymore. I used to spend my last red cent on a new album, stay up late listening to radio stations from the UK, and researching bands online till my eyes bled, but for the last almost three years of my life? I have been reading mommy-how-to-books (and clawing out my eyes) and singing, not Vampire Weekend but the theme song to Jelly Jam the kids programme. He spouted off all these bands he assumed I had never heard of and made it look to others as if I was a musical neophyte! Little did he know that yes, I knew of these bands, they were on my iPod and were the lyrics I lived by, the songs I had Jonah listen to while he was still swimming in my stomach … I just sat there paralyzed with apprehension, thinking that if I spoke I wouldn’t be able to keep up. It reinforced how motherhood had begun to sideline me from the things I used to be so entwined with it was impossible to separate me from them.

I fell into a short lived but intense depression for a little while after my weekend forays into the social world. Coming home to my boys buoyed my spirits each time I returned, but the emotions that had been stirred continued to rot my happiness from the inside out.


Until tonight. A late night coffee with my two best girlfriends got me to stop drowning in the dark with the negative and back into the light looking forward. We traded war stories and laughed, pushed each other to the edge of tears, and angry outbursts but by the time the cups were empty, cold and begging for more coffee I was truly uplifted. I saw that having a social life for the sake of having a social life lacked true and tested genuine friendships. I found it exhausting because I let people who I perceived as “having it all” make me feel like being a stay at home mom meant nothing special. That it meant I was nothing more than a breeder with no other facets to me at all. It isn’t anyone’s fault, and I don’t believe my new social circle think any of that … this is just what I do – to myself – when I decide to live like the other side does once in a while. But three weekends was enough to earn me a break methinks … I am looking forward to this weekend when I can get back to the basics.

Bacon, Bowie and arse-pimply lovemaking. That is all the social life I need.