You know that feeling when you wake up at some absurd hour from passing out somewhere that is not in your own bed after a kind of long night and you realize it's probably a good idea to leave wherever you are even if you don't really want because, hey, there's always tomorrow?
That sort of defines the weekends I've been spending in NYC with M1.
But that's how it goes, right? One thing sort of leads to another and before you know it, it's 3am and you're like fuck, maybe I should go home, but this is really good, but I really should go home, so hold that thought and I'll see you tomorrow, oh brunch? sure, and...plans tomorrow night?
Wait, wait, back up. It's not what you're thinking. Really.
Because even if the late-night scheming, trips to the city, and hours-long daily phone conversations got me to paint my nails [something I haven't done in ages], it's really not like that. Sure we've both made huge commitments - emotionally and physically - but it's not like we're getting married. Still, we did sort of have a baby together.
Her name? Cassette.
A product of six weeks of nonstop work - three of which were entirely devoted to thinking up of a name [and no, I can't even imagine what it's like to have real children] - it's finally finished. There was the proposal, a few days after we initially met, of designing a single t-shirt together, which then sort of blew up into something organic with a will of its own. Then the honeymoon period of thinking that everything was going to just fall into place. Then the little fights, frustrated rampages, tempter tantrums, and tearful anxiety attacks [yup, that was all me]. Then finally, finally, a functioning site, and the possibility of a decent night's sleep.
And so, despite the panicked terror I secretly felt as I hugged M1 a little past midnight last night in celebratory congrats, here it is. Our baby. And while we sort of pulled out the main parts of this thing out of thin air, apparently having kids isn't just between two people. Because without supportive friends who posed, critiqued, pulled shots of espresso and told the obligatory "that's what she said"s, this project would have been as productive as...well, protected sex.
Of course, I'm not condoning unprotected sex. Or having children. Because if cassette felt like a mini dry run of pregnancy and [immaculate] conception, having real kids must be a complete fucking trip.
I have to admit, though, that I'm sort of hoping cassette will last for a while. I actually wouldn't really mind 18 more years of this. Of course, that all depends on how cassette grows up. Still, as a proud mother, I'm going to let myself gloat. At least a tiny little bit.
[Oh, and I almost forgot. It's Rapha Scarf Friday.]