Honey, You’re 18: Thighs Don’t Matter

David had to meet up with some work people tonight, so after dinner (take-out, because it’s Saturday and because I just didn’t feel like it), I took SK and the Mighty Quinn to get some ice cream.  We were sitting on a bench when I noticed two high school girls giggling by the shop’s front window. My eye caught them because one girl was wearing a “Seniors 2011” shirt, and I was trying to figure out which high school she attended, and the other had her skirt hiked so far up her torso that at first I thought it was a second shirt. (Now, you know that skirt wasn’t that high before she left her parents at the house…I hope.) As I watched, another small herd of girls approached them. They must’ve been friends, but this is the coversation that played out in front of us: Girl A, approaching:  “Stop looking at my thighs! You’re looking at my thighs!” Girl B, texting: “Yeah, I’m looking at your thighs!” Girl A, laughing: “Stop looking at my thighs…

Going (Health) Clubbing

Before I had children (ah. How many times do parents utter sentences that start with that phrase?) I drove to the gym–I’m sorry, we’re supposed to call it a health club, I think because it offers nutrition advice and pedicures–almost every day after school, and most Saturdays could find me huffing and puffing at a BodyPump or BodyAttack class (do you love how the classes all have “Body” in front of them? I think it’s to scare you into knowing they’re going to kick not just your rear end, but your whole danged self, around the room for 60 minutes). I looked forward to the group classes–the competition to be faster, get stronger, jump higher–and it relieved stress better than a couple of dirty vodka martinis at happy hour. I liked that I could run up the stairs at work without gasping for air at the top. I took some pride in moving heavy boxes around my classroom without having to ask a dude for help. And I didn’t mind that the backs of my arms didn’t do…

Absence Makes the Love Get All Oozy-Like

David’s been in Dallas all week (not all week. It’s really just been four days) for business, and I’m ready for him to come home. Not so ready to give up all that square footage of sleeping space in the bed, but then he’d probably tell you that that’s really no different from when he is home, except that this time he’s not clinging to the edge of the mattress by his fingertips while I happily dream of sunshine and rainbows (Can’t help it. This momma likes to sprawl). He doesn’t do these big trips too often, which is fine by both of us, especially for him now that his company downgraded their training facilities and he no longer gets a working vacation with the ooh-la-la lobster and steak dinners of yore. He said the other night the place served fish that was so overprocessed his dinner companion thought he was eating chicken. If that’s not enough to make you turn vegetarian, folks, if just until you get that image out of your brain, well…all I can say…