When You're Not Out In The Club

Weekend before last, I went up North to hang out with my friend Jane* and meet her new four-month old baby. Our friend Rita joined us, and we had a great time together. On the Saturday afternoon of our weekend, we decided (or really the one of us who is actually a mom decided) to hire a babysitter so that we could go see Bridesmaids (loved it, wish I could be Kristen Wiig, must move on now).

When we got back from the movie, Rita and I decided that it was wine time. This set us off on a slew of questions:

Was the babysitter 21? The answer: yes.

Should we offer the babysitter a glass of wine? I mean, we’re Southern, so it feels rude not to ask, but she is the babysitter and has to drive. We went with “no” on that one.

Is the babysitter going to judge us for drinking at five? Does she think we’re the lush friends of our suburban mom friend? The answer to that one is probably a sad yes.

I could have sworn that yesterday I was babysitting to supplement my income (and due to the Great Recession, “yesterday” is probably closer than you’d think), and suddenly I was on the other side of the babysitter scenario. I do not know when this happened. (In my head, I’m 17. Seriously. I just wish my face would stop giving me away.)

The next day, the babysitter came back so that Jane could drive Rita and I to the train station and the airport, respectively. While I was trying to hide just how much wine S and I actually drank the night before, we struck up another conversation with the babysitter.

“So, did you go out last night?” Rita said.

“Not really,” the babysitter said, “I was pretty tired.”

I decided to ask my own questions about where she liked to go and what there was to do around town.  

And then it happened. I should have seen it coming, but it was a little like a freight train – not really welcome, but unstoppable. Within five minutes of what should have been a very innocuous conversation, I started to relive my “glory days” that were, if you know me well, not really so glorious. (I thank the magazine writer who put a piece in something I read about how she spent most of her early ‘20s in a bar bathroom stall crying about some dude or other before getting her act together. It gave me far more hope than any older adult or mental health professional at the time.)

Before I knew it, Rita and I were on a little bit of a roll. These are the kinds of phrases that came out of my mouth:

“I actually had a fake id that said I was 30 for awhile. It came complete with a social security card. Can you believe that?”

“Hey Rita, remember when I used to have a beer or two while I wrote my summer school papers? Did I really think Latin American economic policy and Bud Lite were a good mix?”

“What was that guy’s name we met in Adams Morgan over Spring Break? Didn’t somebody make out with him?”

And my favorite, which I believe I threw in there as I was walking out the door (a parting gift if you will):

“Don’t worry about having a gay ex-boyfriend or two. It happens to all of us.”

?!?!?!

In a way, my hope is that the babysitter got bored and stopped listening to us pretty quickly. Otherwise, I have a sinking suspicion she went home that night hopeful not to turn into the older crazy lady that was disposing of wine bottles and reminiscing about her borderline-indecent going out wardrobe from college.

*Names have been changed.