Yeah, so I don’t know if it’s all the supplements or the exercise or the distinct lack of Lexapro, but my daily irritation level has gone up. Maybe I notice more. Maybe I’m all hopped up on green tea and fish oil. Who knows.
I got a letter in the mail today, addressed to Stephen. It was a form letter for a class action lawsuit. They had tracked him down to this particular address since it didn’t have a forward sticker on it. I get a wee bit twitchy when I get mail for my deceased spouse. It makes me want to call them but then I don’t want to explain myself for the eighty millionth time. I know that they don’t know. But isn’t there a national database of dead people or something?
Okay, that’s a little harsh. See my irritation?
There’s a girl pirate at the gym. You read that right…a pirate. She’s tall. She’s blonde. She wears a solid black do-rag. And…not much else. She’s got a nice body. I’d say that she has a 6 pack but it’s probably closer to an 8 pack because of her lack of boobs. But she never wears a shirt. Only a sports bra. Not even one of those sports bra tank top things (do they have an actual name?) because that’s a garment that I not only endorse but actually hope to be wearing this time next year. So, no shirt. And she wears pants. Running pants. Which are practically painted on. And sit so low that you can see her hip bones jutting out and, if you look close enough, you can probably tell when her last Brazilian was scheduled and if she needs to make a new appointment.
There is something about her…that I can’t stand. It might be the stink eye that she gives Fat Camp on her way to the locker room at 6:20 every evening. Or maybe it’s the leering looks she generates when she marches up the aisle. It feels like she has a false confidence. Or, maybe it’s real. And I’ve been at fat camp so long that I don’t know what confidence looks like.
It’s the little things that bother me. Things that are so inconsequential to the grand scheme of life that they don’t even deserve a second thought.
And then there’s this:
I’m tucking Ella into bed tonight. Hugs, kisses, prayers, I love yous. I leave her room to do the same for her sister. I come back a few minutes later to deposit her school clothes on the dresser and I hear,
“Mama…do you know the Macarena?”
I mean, of course I know the Macarena. I lived and breathed the Macarena for the, what, 3 months that it was played every hour on the hour at the bar. Not to mention radio play. (We had actual radios back when I was in college.) I hear the Macarena and I can vaguely taste Zima. And Keystone Light. And…mudslides. I smell sweat and beer and boys and CK One.
The real question is, of course, how does my baby know about the Macarena?
And I’m kind of irritated.