“Do you think we should have a baby?” I asked Jeff. I was watching Teen Mom 2, one of my favorite reality shows on MTV, despite the fact that I was neither a teen nor a mom.
“You mean so you can hang out with Amber and Macy more?” Jeff replied. These were the names of my friends—oops, I mean, the teen moms on the show. I started to feel like they were my actual friends during the winter months in Woods Hole, because, truthfully there were not many women my age, or of my type I should say, around. I was in this vacuous zone of being in my early 30’s on the Cape, without kids, so that opportunity to make friends on the playground, or at sports games, and at PTO was not there. I wondered if maybe I ought to rent a kid as a prop, or offer to babysit, just to secure some winter besties. Shady? Perhaps. Most women who were in their 30’s near me already had kids. They didn’t spend their 20’s bar hopping, riding the subway, and reading “What Color is Your Parachute” trying desperately to find out who they were. But, since I had arrested development (read: made bad choices), I was still somewhere between Teen Mom and Soccer Mom and it was a nebulous place to fall socially.
Jeff picked up a hotel from our Monopoly Board that permanently rest on our kitchen table. We liked to drink wine and play each night, fighting over who would get the blue fancy properties like Park Place.
“Do you think we should open a bed and breakfast?” he asked, turning the red square hotel between his two fingers. “I could cook, since clearly that’s not your forte, and you can…Hm. What can you do?” he asked.
“I’ll do the bed part.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You do the breakfast, and I’ll do the beds. I’ll, like, change them and stuff.”
“This sounds like an optimal business plan,” he said and tossed the hotel back in the box. I looked around the room. Jeff and I had moved in together on High Street, but there really wasn’t much evidence of that, or the fact that anyone lived there. We didn’t have framed selfies of us on hikes, furry pillows, candle sticks, or anything from Home Goods. I’m like the anti-hoarder, tossing things annually, able to still move on the fly. I don’t buy anything, I don’t keep anything, and I don’t decorate anything. I sound really fun. Right? I have analyzed this concept and think it’s either, (A) because I moved seven times in six years; or, (B) I have antisocial personality disorder and no attachment to anything or anyone. I’m going to go with (A). Given what I learned in my research unit job at Cape Cod Hospital, that seems like the better choice.
#TeenMom2 #CapeCod #HomeGoods #Monopoly