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| Haven’t we all had a weekend like this? |
Some weekends are just unexpectedly nice. Even when you’ve got nothing planned ahead of time; except- ahem- for a lengthy To Do list involving lumber, shelving, and copious amounts of storage for one’s husband. (For his stuff, rather. He doesn’t need to go into storage. He can stay right out here in the open. As long as he finishes his To Do list, that is.)
On Saturday, I braved Marshall’s to view their picked over, off season swimsuits. (Also, why is it considered No Longer Summer on July 7th? Color me confused.) The remnants of the “season” were hung on one rack, all inside out and [incorrectly?] marked 2XL. But I am not so easily deterred. Besides, being as my maternity suit might not jive for this summer, I really needed a new one.
(Marshall’s was a fun crowd that day. Actual overheard convo between a mother and her teenaged daughter:
Mom (holding up a swimsuit): Oh, honey, this might look cute with the bottoms from last year!
Daughter (rolling her eyes): Which ONE? There were SO MANY from LAST year.
Don’t worry, America, I decked her for you.)
Anyway, I overcame such hurdles as yicky angst (other peoples’) and physical limitations (my own). For instance, on the two-piece bathing suits, the security tags went through the cup of the tops and the hip of the bottoms. Binding them irrevocably together. I mean, I’m good, but I’m not magic.
Despite this, I managed to come away with two swimsuits. TWO. Like I’m afraid of being photographed in the same one twice during my [sadly nonexistent] St. Bart’s weekend. But here’s the kicker- they were both bikinis. And I assure you that they were not of the 2XL variety. (But they were inside out. And extremely painful to try on, due to the inappropriately placed security tags.)
And once I got them home, turned them right-side out, and tried them on again sans metal stabby devices, they still fit. (Even better, in fact.) It felt awfully good to feel decent in any swimsuit within a year of having had Zuzu, let alone a bikini- something that I hadn’t rocked since my honeymoon. (And before then…never. I was kind of a tankini girl.)
It just goes to show you. Eating right, exercising…and stressing your own face off while your house and sewer system collapses around you just melts those pesky pounds away!
Later that night, I found myself as the date of my good pal Sara to watch a musical- and attempt to order drinks from a phone app. (WE LIVE IN THE FUTURE.) She was successful. My phone wouldn’t lemme. (I think P.J. may have found a way to block me. FOR HE LIVES IN THE FUTURE, TOO.)
Yesterday was just a mess o’ awesome: tons of writing during various people’s naptimes, backyard lolling about on blankets and hammocks and tricycles, a nap for ME, Rocky’s Tacos for lunch, projects with Nora where I actually felt like I was one thousand percent paying attention, and having Susannah happily chew on my face while saying things like “Mama,” “Dad,” “Ba” (Bean? Bear? Bananagrams?), and Zhjee. (Which, obvie, means Geo. Her monkey. She’s clearly a genius.)
Weekends like this are almost a reward for all of the janky stuff that the first half of this year brought. And it’s hardly even detracted by the sonic booms coming from my alley as hilarious kids (adults?) ricochet impossibly loud fireworks down the block. Barely even noticeable. And it certainly doesn’t take the shine off the fact that I FIT INTO TWO BIKINIS, YOU LOUD FIREWORKERS, and I don’t even mean at the same time.
Maybe they’re just celebrating for me.
That must be it.
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