Womanizer.

Every so often something will happen that reminds me of how grateful I am not to be out there in the dating pool. Marriage is hard work, but dating was exhausting. I wasn’t very good at it. I could give you a list of reasons why, but frankly I’d rather not rehash it.

Just know that it wasn’t my specialty.

Yesterday before Zumba class, I was standing off to the side of the room minding my own business when an older woman approached and said, “I thought of you today when I got dressed.” I had never spoken to her before, but she was delightfully engaging/borderline rowdy/possibly crazy, which is exactly what I love in a geriatric.

She showed me her cute workout outfit (complete with large hoop earrings — I high-fived her for that one) and I stood there mouth agape as she rattled on about how she has a son who is single. It took me a few minutes to catch on that she meant she has a son who is single and she wanted me to meet him.

“He’s very tall — like 6’5 — and SO handsome. Honey, he’s a catch. Recently divorced, two kids, makes a lot of money. A lot. You should see his home, it’s gorgeous. Let’s see … he’s a very good cook. Almost too good, really. Sometimes you just want to tell him to get out of the kitchen.”

She then grabbed my left hand and said, “You aren’t married, are y— OH, DAMMIT.” She threw her hands up in the air in what I can only describe as disgust, as I assured her that her son won’t have any trouble finding love.

“It sounds like he won’t have a problem finding someone,” I offered.

That is when she looked straight at me and said, “He won’t find anyone, honey. HE’S A MAJOR WOMANIZER.”

Oh … I see. That IS a problem. But thank you anyway for trying to set me up with your whore of a son.

This is my husband.

Robbie has long said that there is no way he could handle more than one woman in his life. The emotional outbursts, the need for discussion, the complicated bodies, the feelings … my husband is not cut out for philandering. This is why I have surrounded him with light.

The Experiment.

This month I underwent an unplanned experiment wherein I was stuck at home with two sick kids for over 2 weeks straight. To say “it was hard” doesn’t really do the situation justice. I’m not cut out to be home all the time. I seriously thought I was going to LOSE IT.

Normally if I was stuck inside, I would just write a lot, right? And that would make it all okay. But during this time period I was not able to write because every time I started, Asher snotted all over the floor or Pepper pulled a shelf full of pots and pans onto herself. Because you know, small children.

It was one of those stretches of time where I just had to dig deep and force my way through it. I did not enjoy every moment. I enjoyed very few moments. But the good news is, we made it.

The experiment part is that I couldn’t make it to the gym at all, and this proved once again that exercise is a key ingredient to my mental health. I finally went back today, and after huffing and puffing my way through a class I was elated. You can see here that I was clearly much more excited than the kids were. They really are better, I swear … ?

10469482_10154989936025508_3739985586989324538_n

Then we came home and I had to clean my house, my thighs are sore, the baby won’t nap because she’s cutting teeth, and I am no longer elated. I’m tired and annoyed. I have things I need to do and little hands keep grabbing at me. I just want to lie down without someone trying to sit on my stomach.

I have more to say but the baby is crying urgently from her crib, so I’ll have to stop here.

This is motherhood.

 

Gym Ettiquette.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had a “discuss amongst yourselves” story to share. Boy … I’ve got one for you today.

Yesterday I met my friend at the gym for Zumba class. We were about 15 minutes in, and I was totally minding my own business, taking a break between songs to drink some water and wipe the sweat off my face. A woman I don’t know sort of sidled up next to me and stood there until I looked at her. And this is what happened next:

Stranger: Do you have a towel?

Me: Yeah.

Stranger: Can I see it?

Me: (without thinking) Okay.

The strange lady plucked my towel out of my hand, walked over to her spot and mopped the floor with it.

I’m going to let that sink in for a moment.

When she returned, I think she could see the horrified look on my face and she said, Someone spilled water on the floor.” Oh … okay. Well then, by all means, use the towel I’m supposed to dry my face with to dry up your area of the floor so you don’t fall. I silently dropped my towel onto the floor as my friend stared in shock and then mouthed “WHAT THE F*CK?!” at me.

Because I’m a generally nice person and overall sleep deprived and always sort of out of it, I didn’t ask her what the hell do you want with MY TOWEL? Next time, I’ll know better.

Discuss amongst yourselves.