I look like crap today. And I blame my kids.
I’m not talking about what they did to my poor body. I’ve forgiven them for that. (Mostly.)
Or the gray roots that are in desperate need of a touch up that I blame solely on them and not my genetic make-up even though the women in my family do tend to gray prematurely. (Gray hair at 48 is premature right?)
I don’t even mean the wrinkles that surely have more to do with the stern and sour looks that attach themselves to my face when I’m worrying about my kids, than the tanning I did in the 80’s (with Bain de Soleil SPF #4 that instantly turned your skin the most beautiful shade of orange that no self tanner today can even come close to competing with).
No, I am specifically talking about today. I look like crap today. And it’s all Chandler and Marley’s fault.
I went to the gym this morning at 5:30 even though I woke up feeling like I was getting a cold. I refused to believe that the universe would give me a cold five days before Christmas and I convinced myself I was just tired like every morning when I get up at o’dark o’clock. But as soon as I did my first jumping jack in my boot camp class I knew that a dreaded winter cold was most definitely settling itself inside my head.
When I go to the gym I need to be a bit more organized than other days to get to work on time. I left my class before stretching (my favorite part) so I could get home a little early because I had told Chandler I would drive him to school today. That sets my dog walk back about five minutes. But I was prepared for it. (Shhh – don’t tell Dave I gave the dog a half-block shorter walk.)
After Chandler was deposited at school and the dog was walked I woke up Marley, made our breakfast and then started getting ready for work when Dave took her to school. Just as I got out of the shower the phone rang. It was Marley. She forgot the Christmas cookies we stayed up until 10:00 baking and wrapping in cute little bags for her teachers and her friends.
(I did not feel sick last night when I was baking cookies, but the virus must have been brewing inside me, so would the 350 degree temperature of the oven kill the virus or or excelerate its power into some nuclear strength super virus?
If Marley offers you a cookie today you might want to decline.)
Where was I? Oh yeah, Marley forgot her cookies. Crap.
Dave took the dog when he took her to school so I was afraid he was going to go straight to the park and walk the dog without coming home. (Yes our very spoiled dog gets two morning walks a day – a short one with me and a long one with Dave.) He didn’t answer his cell so I quickly dressed and hopped in the car.
Luckily I only got about a half block away when I saw him coming down our street. I honked and got his attention and he offered to go back and drop off the cookies.
I went back home, used my Neti pot, which takes extra time I did not have, and decided to put on “weekend make-up” which means no eye shadow or lipstick to save time. And I very much regret not using concealer.
Just as I was plugging in my flat iron (thank god I didn’t wash my hair – I’d have been totally screwed), the phone rang again.
Chandler forgot his running bag. A bag he brings with him every single day to school.
I believe both my children have a serious case of winter break fever that has seriously affected their already sub-par organizational skills.
I made sure Chandler’s bag had everything he needed, found his practice running shoes, and drove to where he was waiting at the end of the street.
When I got home my hair did not cooperate with my flat iron. It’s casual Friday, but I don’t think my favorite hat would go over well in my office.
I really didn’t have time to spritz my hair with a little water and blow it out a little like I usually do when my flat iron can’t fix my two-day dirty hair.
So thanks to my forgetful daughter I have weekend make-up that doesn’t do much to mask my sallow virus-ridden skin and thanks to my forgetful son my hair looks like it belongs under a hat.
So if you see me today please forgive the way I look. I blame my kids.