Last week I was applying makeup while wearing my robe and Jake peered over at my exposed legs. “Mom, you should go put your stockings on,” he said in a voice of concern. I assured him that I didn’t need to wear my stockings anymore! Happy news! He repeated his request, slightly louder. I repeated my response in a slightly different way, simplifying it as I thought he didn’t understand, like maybe he had an issue with comprehension of the English language. Finally, he tearfully snapped. “MOM! Please just put your stockings on! Your legs are creeping me out!”
 |
| Ew! And this is after a week of healing. It’s like Frankenstein’s monster’s legs, but paler. |
I went and put on yoga pants.
Yesterday was a lovely day and I spent the majority of it bundled up and sitting out in the sun, reading, like the elderly person I have now become. The boys rode their scooters and bikes and dug holes in the dirt while I wondered how much longer it will be until I can clean up the yard a little, plant a few things, cut back the old dead perennials. There is still snow on the ground although it’s trying to melt. My husband watched the Master’s, and for those of you who are not golf fans – I suspect that I’m talking to most of my readership here – it is being touted as the most exciting Master’s EVER. At one point there were six players who were tied for the lead, which is evidently quite rare. Tiger Woods even was a contender – I coulda been a contender! I coulda been a somebody, instead of just a nobody. – but he did not win. It is a little amazing to me that he still has a large fan base and that people were clapping (in the muted, golf way) for him. I guess this gives hope to Charlie Sheen.
It’s funny about relationships. I’ve been reading a few articles lately that have addressed the issue of how to “keep the spark alive”, and while I have a hard time keeping the ribald jokes to myself (Blowjobs! Pornography! Alcohol!), I think it’s an important topic. My husband is, obviously, an avid golf fan and an avid golf player, while I, most clearly, am not. I am a yoga practitioner, whereas my husband, most emphatically, is not. But yet, I find that our separate interests are part of our keeping said spark alive, even if we frequently “parallel talk” – i.e., “I shot a birdie on the tenth hole, then bogeyed the eleventh.” “My back’s a little stiff from Kapotasana. I think I should stretch.” There is no way that we are ever going to be a “golf couple”; I am never donning one of those little hats and killing myself with frustration. We are also never going to be a “yoga couple”; my husband is never going to “inhale happiness exhale peace.” We’re a happy couple, though. Even if I know, against my will, that Rory McIlroy completely fell apart on the back nine.
Tonight is soccer evaluations, and the single greatest email I received last week informed me that the evaluations would take place indoors this year, given the plethora of snow. I was almost hysterically happy with this news. Next week the season starts and let me tell you a little secret: outdoor soccer in this city is terrible. Every year I sit on my little folding chair dressed for a blizzard, with a giant cup of tea and a sleeping bag wrapped around me, and it feels like, indeed, hell has frozen over and I am living in it. But the kids are happy out there in the fresh air and light evenings, running around, and that’s what matters most. Now, if only that snow would melt.
