This is it.
I’m done. I’m tired. I’m totally over it.
And that’s usually the place in life where I gotta get before I realize nobody is gonna take care of crap for me and I’m apparently gonna have to do it myself.
(And you call yourselves friends and family.)
A bed should not be necessary to lay on to zip up jeans.
A skirt should not scream for mercy at the seams of the ass.
Boobs should remain in the bra and not bubble up over and out of the top.
I made an announcement to Keith and Cayla that crap was about to change. “They” could continue eating the garbage they wanted to eat…but “I” was going back to my single days.
(Of health, that is.)
Days when I had no husband and kid to think about when it came to meals. I would be eating fruit and vegetables and healthier stuff.
I also told them I was going to start some kind of exercise program.
Monday and Wednesday: Yoga
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning: The gym
They were more than welcome to join me, but don’t be asking where I was and when was I coming home and to please stop and pick up something from Sonic.
The better care I take of my health, the longer I will be around to be bossy, fussy and quite delightful.
I think they love me.
I have quietly noticed a change.
Instead of getting a bowl of Bluebell Homemade Vanilla with an illegal dosage of Hershey’s chocolate syrup over running the bowl and going straight to his arteries….Keith has been eating fruit and yogurt and granola and saying, “Oh, my God! This is friggin awesome!”
I’ve said nothing. Because you know how it goes. If I notice…he’ll stop. Because it was MY idea and well, it’s healthy. And we don’t do healthy at our house.
And Cayla. Instead of snacking on those gummy-chewy-sugary-globby-plasticky- tasting snack things…she’s been caught in her room molesting a bowl of strawberries.
And trail mix.
Which is totally unlike her.
They both have admitted to liking this “healthy” crap I’m (apparently) making them do. They both say they feel better. Have more energy. Sleep better. And so on.
(But, I’m “making” them do it.)
(I can’t “make” her polish her purple chipped up toenails before church, but I can “make” her eat healthy. Yeah.)
(I can’t “make” him…well, wait. He does pretty much everything I ask, so…moving on.)
When I’m at yoga, they have a little extra time on their hands to “bond” and well, I think that’s good. Except when it goes like this:
Me: Hey, I just got home and my family isn’t here. Where are y’all?
Him: Oh. Yeah. Uhhhh, we stopped to get a bite to eat.
Me: OooooKkkkk…what are you eating?
Him: Not much. Just a little small plate of stuff.
Me: What “stuff?”
Him: Cheese Quesadillas
Gotta watch’em like a hawk. Turn my back for one minute and they’re diving off the damn deep end.
Now? They’re following me to the gym.
I ain’t there to play. I toss back a 5-Hour Energy and it’s on. Get out of my way.
Treadmill…weight machines…the whole ball of sweaty crap.
I hate it.
(But I hate my tight jeans even more.)
There we are. All 3 of us hovering around the gym doing our thing and sweating enough to fill a giant cesspool.
After about an hour and a half, Cayla comes up to my glistening face and says:
“Homework. I’ve got homework. We HAVE to go home!”
Never in my wildest thigh-rubbing dreams did I think I’d hear myself say:
“OK. Just give me 10 minutes. I’m not leaving until I do these two leg machines.”
(I immediately looked around to see who said that.)
(Believe it or not…it was me.)
(Yeah, it was.)
For the love of all boob sweat, do not repeat this or I’ll hunt you down, but….I’m kinda liking it. I’m finding myself looking forward to working out.
Now, I hear myself saying, “I GET to workout today” instead of “I HAVE to workout today.”
(I swear, if you tell a soul I just said that I will have your ass at the gym with me and Keith said I’ve got to be worse than any drill sergeant.)
Even though Keith tells me every day he thinks I’m beautiful (even though we both know at the time there is nothing cute about sweat dripping down my face or mascara smudged under my eyes or legs that shoulda been shaved 4 days ago), I wanna get pretty obnoxiously jealous when I find him oogling and looking at another woman.
Then realize it’s me.
(I don’t know what oogling is either. It just sounded right at the moment.)
Here. Want some yogurt and granola?