You know that repressed version of yourself that only makes an appearance when you’re feeling fully free and moderately drunk on a few-too-many tequila cocktails while high on a four-day-long-dose of childless freedom and basking in the light of a good hair day and an outfit not covered in the bodily functions or byproducts of the grubby little fingers belonging to any of your genetic offspring?
Well, I’ve come to affectionally gun that version of myself Big Deb. I wouldn’t call her my alter-ego because I’m always capable of being her. She’s always there, lurking in the overshadowing guts of life— the kids, the routine, the obligations and responsibilities, the rules, the day-to-day list of what it takes to live and run your lives. It’s rare that Big Deb comes out to showcase her contagiously sunny disposition and often wild abandon that Big Deb rarely leaves home without carrying in her leopard print silk dress pocket.
I’m currently thirty-ish thousand feet in the air, encased by steel and pleather, sipping a Bloody Maria (tequila in lieu of vodka for those curious few). I just paid fourteen stupid dollars for in-flight Wi-Fi because I just downed a stale and overly bitter Starbucks cold brew and sleep is beyond even the realm of possibilities. Also, I’m so fucking excited that I don’t want to shut my eyes and risk missing anything as I spend the next four glorious days away from life as I almost-always know it in Austin with one of my best, most fun, most trustworthy dining companions, Ashley, encouraging Big Deb to come out and play along the way.
I’ve got a suitcase packed with clothes made of mostly non-washable fabrics, shoes abhorrently inappropriate for school drop-off and earrings that Knox would thoroughly enjoy ripping out of my ear lobes like the heathen he was born to be if he were only so lucky to be allowed to do so. I have three different shades of red lipstick to wear depending on Big Deb’s mood and ample free time to apply it. The kicker? I find myself graced with the unfathomable privilege of pooping alone without straining and mumbling for fuck’s sake?! when I inevitably hear someone start crying or something crash from the next room over for the next seventy-two-plus hours.
Ashley and I have no plans beyond the reservations she so very kindly made for every. single. meal. And— get this— our meals were reserved for time slots reserved for the childless folk… the times most parents would never even fathom making a child wait to eat because one would rather starve or be hungry again by 8:15pm than deal with a hangry and overtired toddler in a public setting where judgy fellow patrons or fearful restaurant staff who hide their bulk supply of sugar packets the moment you walk through the door will witness your imminent demise.
So, if Big Deb is the goose, I guess you can say that the overly-tired, used-to-be-cool, golden goose is officially on the loose with Austin as her playground. Stay tuned….
Also, I’d like to send a big shout out to my hot-like-fire baby daddy who holds the fort down like a fucking champion and, like the real stud that he is, doesn’t pepper me with texts or complains or questions about the kids or parenting or any other inconsequential details while I get away for a few days. Thanks, J, for not only helping me make this happen but encouraging me to indulge, disconnect, and focus on myself and my friend while I’m gone living my best life. I love you, I’ll miss you, and I’m immensely appreciative of you and your overt consideration and your hot-dad-ing skills. No, no… you da bomb!
