Topher Payne: Beach babies

I’m more of a strident bossypants who prefers that every living thing in my sphere of influence submit to my maddening dictatorial stranglehold. This does not lend itself well to the version of me which comes out when I am overserved, because instead of being in control, I am: A) stupid, and B) slutty. Both of those things were cute when I was 23. But as my knees and back like to remind me, 23 was quite some time ago.

Also, I like mornings. When I overindulge, I lose the morning and a good portion of the afternoon, wandering around with a foggy brain and muskrat mouth. This made me a tough sell to the girlfriend posse, most of whom were trained bartenders who also toured with a jam band at some point in their eventful lives.

I like to think I won them over with pizazz. Several of the girlfriends paired off with men who could keep up with their vacation jamboree, which means this cheese officially stands alone.

But this year, something amazing happened. Something which changed everything.

Babies.

Marvelous, goofy, sleepless, teething babies. Suddenly, I am no longer the only person who has to be slathered in SPF 50 and placed under a beach umbrella. Gone are the days when mine was the lone cranky voice demanding to be fed at regular intervals.

And when I rise to greet the day at seven in the morning, I am not alone for five hours. There is a flurry of activity already in full play. It turns out I’ve been keeping the schedule and lifestyle of an overworked parent, I just didn’t have the child to justify it.

The girlfriends have tackled motherhood with the same gusto they apply to everything else, so they’ve got very happy babies. The kind of babies that make you think of having babies, because someone else has done all the grunt work and you just get to play peekaboo and smell their heads.

“When are you guys gonna have one?” asks a girlfriend while Preppy and I entertain her giggling child.

“Well, we’re not taking any measures to prevent it, so now it’s in God’s hands,” I reply.

“I’m serious. Look at you two, you’d be great at it.”

Okay, look. I know I’ve always said we don’t want children, we love that we don’t have to put the dog through college, but I’m willing to confess: Of course I would want a kid. We’d be damn good parents. Hell, if I could get knocked up we’d probably already have one or six, which is why God made me a gay guy, because otherwise I’d be trailer park royalty.

But adoption agencies aren’t really begging for high school dropout cancer survivor playwrights to apply, and even if I took my change jar to the CoinStar I’d still likely come up short the thirty grand one requires for a surrogate. I made my peace with that a long time ago. Our lives are quite complete as a dynamic duo.

Still, it’s nice to know that once a year we’ll take a break from that life, and share in the joy of the ever-growing posse.

 


Topher Payne is an Atlanta-based playwright, and the author of the book “Necessary Luxuries: Notes on a Semi-Fabulous Life.” Find out more at www.topherpayne.com