It’s not my best look. I call it “just rolled out of bed not even wearing my cute glasses wearing my favorite sweater and only two sips in to a cup of coffee” chic.
I just wanted to sit down this morning and say Hey you guys! Yesterday afternoon yours truly was Freshly Pressed and with that comes scads (gobs? hordes? what shall I call you?) of new readers that deserve a little shout out.
It didn’t seem right to get all fancied up and try and be something I am not and dazzle you. So. Here I am. This is where I usually am. In my chair with the kiddo on the boob. This morning is cold so I am enjoying one of the four (four!) cowl neck scarves I have recently crocheted. Yeah. I am a woman that crochets, guys. I don’t know how it happened. Sometime this winter when I realized I had watched everything on my DVR and every single series on Hulu I decided I needed to find something else to do while Lucy slept in my lap. So, yeah, I crochet. And I am impatient. Cowl neck scarf – the four hour project – we are pals. Stick around and maybe I will send you one if your neck looks particularly cold.
I wish I had more time this morning but I am trying to get out the door.
You know when you do something that you kind of think is awesome but you aren’t sure if it is totally absurd. You’re not embarrassed exactly, but you’re not sure if people that know you would think “Oh, that is strange. You don’t really do that, do you?” When I was fourteen I bought a hot pink swing dress and purple polka-dotted tights to wear to my boyfriend’s graduation. (It was 1991, it was a hot look.) Previously I had been seen in my overalls. Pretty much every day. I thought the dress was cute. I thought it was kind of adorably Molly Ringwald-ish, actually. But I wondered if it was “me.”
I don’t work hard to stay in my “me” box. But I think we all have a type. Not long ago I was horrified when I realized I had Mom-hair but I owned it. In fact, I declared myself to be the Samue L. Jackson of Motherhood and decided that in spite of my hair I was a bad motherfucker.
So, I am yammering on because I am not sure I can admit this. I like to work out. It keeps me from being totally mental. I run. I actually love p90x. I am not afraid of the weight room and I don’t really wear “cute outfits” to the gym. I like to get sweaty. But this morning I am going to do something I have been talking about doing forever. And I might get hysterical and get kicked out but I am going for it. I am going to Zumba, guys. Zumba bills itself as a sexy Jazzercise. Take a minute to chew on that. Sexy. Jazzercise. I hope they serve margaritas. I am going to need one. Or four.
So, a big fat “hello” and “happy to meet you” and “what took you so long let’s be best friends!” to the new readers. I gotta jet. Get my sweat on. Oh, and shake my moneymaker. Because apparently when I am not busy being a bad motherfucker or crocheting I go to Zumba. Sigh. The latter half of my third decade is going to be weird. I can feel it.