I'm stir crazy. At the cusp of twenty-five and six months pregnant, this is supposed to be "the most exciting time of my life". Becoming a woman, growing up, entering this new phase in my life, so much to do, so little time. The reality is that my life consists of waking up, going to work, where I kiss the asses of unappreciative foreigners in exchange for a ten percent tip, and then going home to watch sitcoms. I start with Friends which turns to The King of Queens which turns to Seinfeld which turns to The Big Bang Theory which ends to me falling asleep in front of the TV to more Seinfeld around eleven o'clock. This time last year, eleven pm would have meant getting out of the shower, beer in hand, figuring out in which bar I would most likely leave my debit card behind for the third time that month.
But I guess that's how life progresses. Sometimes I'll look at where I am at any point in time, trace back to a year, and compare just how big a difference 365 days can make. Just like in a year from now I'll have a small person in my arms, someone I'm completely responsible for, someone who I'll love unconditionally in a way that I do not comprehend today. But until then, I remain bored, even a bit bitter about this thing growing inside of me, keeping me locked up away from the world I know and love. And I think that's okay.
So now I'm in this "nesting" phase. Our second bedroom has served us faithfully as assurance that we are not completely trapped together in a luxury prison cell, regardless of the fact that we're usually in the same room anyway. Having it there gives us a a sense of security, a sense of escape, and a place to store all of our extra crap. I've been trying to get it organized and cleaned out for the past month but I think our stuff is multiplying. I've been toting around the same useless boxes of pictures and notebooks and 8th grade love notes from apartment to apartment. I know I'll never use them but like the second bedroom, I just like to know they're there. Nesting. It's cool because it's what all creatures instinctively do. It's like I'm becoming a part of the large scheme of the natural world: procreating, jumping on Mother Nature's bandwagon along with every female pigeon and sea turtle whoever lived (without, thank god, nosy beach goers shining a flashlight up my ass just to get in on the action of the miracle of life). So every couple of days, I go in there and try to make a dent. I gather all my dirty sticks and leaves and twigs and try to make a home for the egg I'm about to lay onto the population.
For years, I've been writing about looking for a purpose, finding a passion or something to care about. I've looked for that in all the usual vices, in people, in hobbies, religion, community service, political stances. And all of these things have served me well in their appropriate times. But they have rarely lasted or held much substance beyond something to cling to while waiting for the next big change. Life is an evolving energy, constantly moving forward. Sometimes I feel like I missed some opportunity. Like I wish I'd listened to all those voices in my head telling me to do things differently. I wonder if this is really where I want to be. Twenty-five with little life experience beyond my own mini dramas, the world my oyster that I never got to taste before being forced to settle down, becoming a mom, and living for someone else. But beyond that doubt and hint of bitterness, I have faith that this passion I've been looking for is right under my nose, literally. She has a heartbeat, a name, and ten fingers and toes. And somehow, I know that every decision I've made, good or bad, has led me here.
So consider this my last opportunity, at least for a while, to be a little selfish, to have something all about me and me only. Maybe you'll read this, maybe you won't, maybe you'll get bored after the first paragraph and move on to a blog about dogs who look like their owners. It doesn't matter. I'm doing this for me, but if you'd like to join me, feel free.