Yes, there IS (vodka-infused-rocked-by-the-heavy-base-my-feet-are-killing-me) life after baby

Last night, as I was crossing the rather crowded dance floor of a club in NYC at the premiere party for TiMER - a movie that my best friend Jennifer produced, which played at the Tribeca film festival and which was absolutely wonderful - I thought - as the fizzy cocktails that I was carrying for myself and my friends dripped down my arms, as I was thrust back and forth by terribly enthusiastic gentlemen who took Sunday night to levels I didn't even know existed, with their costumes and face paint, and, just...their moves - about my baby, who was undoubtedly asleep in her pink pajamas, curled into some kind of impossibly sweet position in her little crib at her grandparents' house, and, for just a moment, I wished so badly that I was there, too, in bed, clean, without heels on for the LOVE OF GOD WHY DO WOMEN WEAR HEELS, but something in the throbbing music, perhaps, and my smiling friends' faces and the insanity of it all reminded me that it was totally worth it, and, I must admit, I was also comforted by the thought that an 8 p.m. bedtime for the rest of the week, well, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.