When “Girls” hit this spring, I was shocked by how true the show rang to my life—not my old life as a post-collegiate single girl but my new one, as a married, monogamous, home-owning mother. My generation of moms isn’t getting shocking HPV news (we’re so old we’ve cleared it), or having anal sex with near-strangers, or smoking crack in Bushwick. But we’re masturbating excessively, cheating on good people, doing coke in newly price-inflated townhouses, and sexting compulsively—though rarely with our partners. Our children now school-aged, our marriages entering their second decade, we are avoiding the big questions—Should I quit my job? Have another child? Divorce?—by behaving like a bunch of crazy twentysomething hipsters. Call us the Regressives.
It’s probably ageist and sexist, but I’m pretty grossed out by Brooklyn’s Party Moms. That’s probably a pretty uncool thing to admit. I should probably be more open-minded and inclusive towards Party Moms— they’re still people, and they didn’t stop being people even if they crapped out some kid named Taylor or Clementine five years ago. Just because some lady’s got a kid named Orson back at her crib, wanting to watch Alvin and the Chipmunks, doesn’t mean she still isn’t going to fiend for cocaine. That’s what makes it cocaine. And I’m closer in age to Party Moms, too— I’m no spring chicken, I’m a … well, I’d say early-summer chicken. But I don’t know— I’m just kind of grossed out by Party Moms. I’m not sure I can defend it really. I’m not really handling getting older well, basically— I am not going to be happy being a mid-summer chicken.
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