I recognize you...

I got in the elevator this morning, as I do every Saturday morning (Dave's day to sleep in)--- tired after staying up to spend an hour with my husband, tired after JD's 4am party in his crib (and I was the guest of honor!), annoyed, irrationally annoyed that it is Saturday morning and I have to schelp out the dog, the kid, the stroller, the sweaters, the shoes and the socks, schelp them all out and bundle them all on, schlep them down the hall and into the elevator, the dog is wild with excitement and is jumping and pulling, and I am really.fucking.annoyed that I have to schelp and push and take them out for a walk at 8:30am on a Saturday morning.

I got us all into the elevator and I yanked the dog into a sit. We went down one floor and the elevator stopped. A very pretty girl got on, about 27, with long, straight & shiny hair. She was wearing a simple black shirt dress, riding-inspired boots and a couple pieces of understated silver jewelry. She was carrying a bottle of Ketel One, a bottle of Mrs. T's, and a sleeve of red plastic cups. She rode down with us, making googly eyes at JD all the way. Then she walked out of the lobby and climbed into a black Range Rover, door held open by some good looking, cool, rich guy.

As I watched her, I thought, "Oh God, I recognize you. I know you. I used to be you. I used to wear that dress, and those boots, and that jewelry. I used to date that guy and drink Bloody Marys at Point-to-Points on beautiful Saturdays in October." And I stopped for a minute and stared at them, and I had this desperate, overwhelming urge to grab her by the arm and tell her how I used to be her. I had this desperate, overwhelming urge to be her again. To be all clean and shiny and sleek, young and happy and full of possibilities, with the biggest responsibilty of the day being how to get home safely after a day of Bloody Marys.

Then I remembered that when I was her, all I wanted was to be me. I wanted to be the Mom. I wanted to wear stylish yet casual jeans and tennies, with a belted cardigan and my hair in a pony. I wanted to spend my beautiful October Saturdays pushing an adorable baby in a trendy stroller, with our loving dog trotting along beside us. I wanted to have rings that would catch and reflect the morning light as I held my silver travel mug of coffee in my left hand. My baby would be named something classic yet preppy, like Ned or JD. He'd wear an Aran sweater and corduroys, and he would look around as we walked and smile. I would smile.

And then I did. Because I realized that I was her. And I was happy.