The Glamorous Life Of The Modern Day Soccer Mom
The Glamorous Life Of The Modern Day Soccer Mom
I’ve been sick for a couple weeks now. Don’t worry – it’s nothing serious. Just a mutant cold of some kind. Annoying, but far from seriously harmful. I’ve been confined to my room for about 10 days, though, in an effort to keep this nasty bug from infecting my family and the rest of the world.
As I’ve whiled the days away blowing my nose and trying to sleep,
Clearly, something diabolical happened here. Thank you to Lorca Damon for reminding me of that.
No sane person would create a wall like this. They just wouldn’t.
Something happened in this room. But, what? What happened to the third wall hanging? Who took it and why? Did they have to take it? Was it part of a plan? What did they do with it?
You know how some days you wake well rested, your hair goes just right, and you have several clean outfits at the ready? Yeah, me neither.
Usually, I wake in a panic and spend the day in survival mode, hoping I don’t have car trouble on my way home from my kids school, so I don’t end up standing on the side of the road in my pajamas.
Super Bowl Sunday is all fun, frolic, and food. It’s full of cheering and eating and drinking. There’s a concert right in the middle of it. And, there’s some football.
The Monday after, on the other hand, not so much.
Let’s face it, the day after Super Bowl Sunday is really Not-Super Monday.
Not-Super Monday is the ugly twin to Super Bowl Sunday.
I forgot to bring my brain to breakfast. I was meeting up with my friend, Ava. We’ve been friends for years, and, as always, we talked so much we forgot to look at the menus. The poor waiter had to come back three times before we both decided to get the same thing we get every time we meet there.
We laughed and talked through our meal, and all the way out to our cars,
I weigh myself every morning. It’s part of my morning prayer time. Actually, it usually triggers the start of my morning prayer time. Nothing reminds me to ask for divine intervention quite as consistently as facing that cold, unrelenting, killer-of-self-esteem that is my bathroom scale.
So, yesterday, when I walked into my new neurologist’s office for the first time, the morning’s gravity check number was well cemented in my head.
