Playdate for Mama

I had lunch with my new friend today, the girl who I met at a conference last weekend. It was delightful. She is fun and smart and basically has my job in another agency, so we got to geek out together. She played with Tankbaby, complimented my grilled cheese, and gave me a hug at the end. It was lovely and I spent the next ten minutes glowing and junior-high giddy about My New Friend.

And, of course, twenty minutes later I was all, did I talk too much? Did I ask interesting questions? Did she actually have to go, or was she just tired of me? Is she as fun as I think she is? Did I inadvertently insult her agency with that one comment? Was that question about kids too personal?

It's weird, making friends once you're past, like, 20. It's so easy (she says, with the glaze of hindsight cleverly blurring away any details that would contradict her) when you're living in the dorms and there are thousands of other people in the same situation and everyone is all about meeting other : "You like U2? I love U2! Wanna be roommates?" It's low-risk, because there's always a June around the corner, an opportunity to shake the Etch-a-Sketch and start over. Wanna be Goth now? No problem. Ran out of eyeliner? That's OK, you can always join the patchouli hacky-sackers outside the cafeteria. Whoever you are (at whatever moment), you can find a group.

What's weird is that I'm actually less shy now than I was when I was in my 20s. But for some reason, I find myself doubting my own, well, for lack of a better term, coolness. This results in a strange equation, wherein I am more outgoing, thus creating more opportunities for me to doubt my Every Thought And Deed. Whee!

Hmph. I wrote this earlier, and then there was baby-tending, lunch-making, dinner-eating, and dog-feet-wiping, and now I fear I've lost the thread. I'd love to say that I'll sit here until I remember what my big, fancy, perfect ending was, but let's be real: the babe is asleep and I have the opportunity to go to bed early. Good night!