This morning, I had a hard time waking up. I just felt so tired. I could not imagine pulling myself and my bag together to go to the gym, but as I have found in the past, having kids forces you to get up and get moving anyway, so you may as well do the things you’re supposed to.
I got up. I fed the girls. I got dressed. I packed my bag. I went into the bathroom to put my hair up.
Z: Uh, Beloved. Can you come here, please?
Z: Look at my neck!
B: Uh. Sorry? (as he checks his own neck in the mirror.) It, uh, won’t happen again?
Whatever. It was small. Could have just been a slight discoloration. No biggy.
I take the girls to their theater place. I run into a friend. She offers me a ride to the gym. Because I have my bag jam full of shower accoutrements and it’s heavy, I take her up on it. We chat in her car a little longer than the drive, and I eventually get out and go to the gym.
In the gym, I decide I need to pee before getting on my machines. I go into the bathroom. I look at my spider bite [a real bite from a real spider, which I woke up with yesterday a.m., when I was still in a drought in that other department – a true, real spider bite – or mosquito bite, but regardless, it’s red, puffy and itchy], which is square in the middle of the front of my neck. I look at my other, non-spider bite, closer to my collar bone. Then I turn away.
Then I slowly turn back. What the fuck? I turn my head just so while looking in the mirror.
Holy shit. I mean, really. What the hell? Have I ever had one that big? Like, ever? And did my friend see it? Because I was in the passenger seat, and she was in the driver’s seat, and it’s on the left side. She really isn’t such a “friend” that I could know that she was chuckling. She could have been rolling her eyes and thinking, “Jesus, Zuska is such a freaking child,* as we all already know, but does she have to FLAUNT it? I mean, what is this, high school?”
I sort of think she didn’t see it, because when turning my head to talk to her, it could have been hidden. But my hair was all pulled back, rather tightly. So if I turned my head, she saw it. It’s unlikely that I didn’t turn my head. I think I remember that before I got in her car, I was standing at her car, talking to her, and another friend drove by and honked, and I turned my head to wave and say hi, and that was a head-turn in the WRONG direction. In a “look at my neck! look what I did last night! Look how tacky I am!” direction.
Woe is me. Honestly. This has never happened before! Probably not even when I was 16. I can’t even fully explain it. I mean, maybe I can. We were so tired when we came home from Europe, and then the kids came home, and they were staying up so late every night, and then my monthly fun began … so all told, it had been a while. And we did have fun last night. But, still. I am not happy that someone may have seen proof.
I assure you. Despite the melty hotness here today, my hair stayed down all damned day. No ponytails or buns for me.
* Referring, yet again, to my relative youth. I am 34. My next-youngest friend is 42. Most parents in this town are Beloved’s age … which is 45. Or older. Some considerably older. I am approximately 10 years younger than everyone. Sometimes it sucks. Like, today, for example. I am walking home with E and her friend. E says, “I don’t want to stay at the park, it’s too hot,” and I say, “E, you are 10. Stop whining like your 35 year old mother – you can handle the heat.” Her friend says, “that makes no sense. Who is her 35 year old mother?” I said, “uh, Me?” She said, “YOU ARE 35? ARE YOU SERIOUS? MY MOTHER IS 47!” Never mind that I had already shaved a year off. We then went on to discuss the age of many other people — all of which being my senior. The closest to my age we could find was the friend’s step-mother, who is 37. To which the friend said, “but her child is ONE! So this provides no justification!” (yes, E and her friends talk that way.) Damnit. I *feel* 45. Or 46. Doesn’t that count for anything?
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