Domesticated

My boys tell me I've gone domestic. Domesticated they call me, like some wild animal tamed into someone's home. I argue, but I fear they may be right. They tell me I "used to be fun". I really don't see how I am any different than the person they knew. Every so often I still let out the monster in me.
These are no longer the high school days of no responsibility. I have bills to pay. I have to be at work at 7 am and while I don't think mine is the most exciting job ever, it pays well. Sure, I'm out of the cabinet shop, and I do miss that job, but we all have to move forward in our careers, even if we don't know what our career will be.
A part of me misses the weekends wasted in hangover hell rehashing stories of the guy in TJ I was smooching on. I'm still a bit proud of the time I peed in a parking lot. But since that was the highlight of my last frightening night in Mexico, I don't want to relive it.
It's almost as though you have two different people in me. You have the one who wants to be respectable, the one who desires to be thought of as a role model of grace. And the one who will rip her shirt off in the middle of a party because dammmit, it's fucking HOT in here. (this act prompted quite a bit of topless mayhem in what has been declared the greatest, wildest party in group history)
I guess I am just considering life at the moment. Pondering who I really am. And really, I think I would rather be multifaceted. Keep them guessing. Be able to go from knitting to pudding wrestling in an hour. The kind of friends I want will love that about me. So in a couple of hours, I really can look forward to cooking BF up a nice hearty meatloaf.