It’s your happy housewife checking in here. Ha. I should probably clarify that to your “harried housewife” but that just leaves me with visions of a frizzy-haired woman with the back of her housecoat stuck up in her pantyhose and a Marlboro hanging haphazardly from her lipstick stained lips. Which is totally not me. Because I don’t smoke. Yet.
Anyway, yet again I’vebeen remiss in posting lately but as somewhat described above, life has been a whirlwind of crazy and more crazy. Mother’s Day (a day which should be spent in pampering and worshiping) was celebrated with snotty tissues and cough drops. I was sick, folks, on the only day of the year where my husband is actually required to honor my contribution to this world. And rather than being able to justifiably order him to fill Jack’s sippy cups and monitor Avery’s room cleaning I was toes up all day on the couch, miserable with some God-forsaken head cold that undoubtedly was brought home from preschool and shared with me regardless of Jack’s diligent post school hand washings which I recently discovered consisted of him standing in front of the bathroom sink making a “pshhhhh” sound, not a splash of water touching his skin. Lovely.
On Tuesday, I celebrated my 35th birthday. The snot had thankfully subsided for the most part but I still felt like I was one-step away from death’s door. And I felt 35. Bonus.
And then, as if to add salt to a wound, after four days of feeling like death warmed over and celebrating my foray into a new age category I braved the gym only to cause grievous pain to my upper back by apparently overdoing it on the Lat Pull Down machine. I have a feeling that the newbie tour group standing over my shoulder watching my every move may have had something to do with my uncharacteristic overzealous lifting regimen. I felt like, in that moment, I was representing that gym and had to do my part to recruit these newbies to our cause. They had to witness the beauty of physical fitness and it was up to me to provide them with the view. Not the “cover model of a fitness magazine” view with the wind-blown voluptuous hair, skin-glistening, becomingly flushed, needs to gain 10 pounds view. The realistic one. The one with the sweat-soaked bed hair, sunstroked cheeks, labored breathing, needs to lose 50 pounds view. And I’m pretty sure I provided that and jacked up my back in the process. All for the cause, folks.
So, I’ve spent the last two days in an ibuprofren-stupor with rotating ice packs and heat packs hopefully working out the inflammation in whatever muscles I have back there. Yes, it’s been quite a week indeed and has succeeded in reminded me why I love the weekends.