Footscrazy

Life on the farm was fun, but there comes a time when one can no longer justify one's own blatant freeloading.  That time arrived when the renovating jobs began to dry up, but not before we managed to buy two pigs under the guise of better utilizing the property.  They are obscenely cute which I'm hoping will offset the responsibility we've casually dumped on Val.  

We've landed in Footscray, aka Footscrazy and entirely deserving of its title.  Footscrazy has its very own set of social rules.  It is entirely acceptable to wax lyrical at great volume about one's sexual exploits, especially at the bus stop.  The bus stop is also handy for obtaining cigarettes, purchasable from any obliging smoker for a handy twenty cents a piece.  Our house is just outside the action, and includes a lovely couple, their two kiddies and an industrious hive of bees.   

For us, moving in here was a no brainer.  Madeline and Dave are ex-Brunswick-ers themselves, Maddy is studying the same thing I did, and Dave is a blacksmith.  A blacksmith!  The younger boy is two and a half, and so cute I have to refrain from eating him.  

So excited were we about our find, we rushed over to Caitlin's place to divulge the news, which was received with due rapture until we got to the bit about the littlies.  'What!'  Exclaimed all four hipsters in unified revulsion,  'Kids?!'  

For an instant I was swept up in the tide of disgust.  I glanced at Tom to check he hadn't fallen off his chair with the sudden realization of our colossal oversight.  He looked okay, and I quickly regained my resolve.  'Yes, Kids.'

Ensuing protests ranged from 'but they'll wake you up in the morning!'  to 'What are you going to do if the eight year old is really annoying?'  But the central theme appeared to be that the kids would rob us of our freedom.       

Children would render it frightfully inappropriate to stay up late nursing glasses of warm goon and talking bullshit!  There could be no more audible swearing, no loud arguments, and certainly no cries of passion!  What a muted, regulated existence!

Since that night I’ve pondered our reasons for inflicting this apparent hell upon ourselves, and I’ve come up with this.  I suppose we want to be regulated.  Before we went on the aborted road trip, we spent a vast majority of our time engaged in the exact activities which are now a no-go.  It was really fun; drinking and laughing and socialising non-stop.  But toward the end I was having trouble coming up with eloquent arguments to justify our choice of lifestyle.  No one actually said anything, but I couldn’t help but assume there were a few people wondering when Tom and I were going to get our shit together.  Hence the trip, and now that we’re back, the self-imposed regulations.      

I’ve spent a sizable chunk of the last few months fretting about being behind in the life race.  I’ve been hopelessly confused about the practicalities of becoming an adult, certain only that whatever was involved, it would be decidedly more boring than partying till ya puke.  So it’s come as a huge relief that I’m actually enjoying living with kids. And I've even started to voluntarily decline party invites. Who knew.