I know, I know; I’ve been MIA for months! And I
obviously owe you an explanation.
Already on it.
See, at the start of every summer, I ready myself
for an annual ritual; a couple of quiet months of meditation. Sneaking off to a
secret destination, I settle down for some deep soul-searching. The idea is
intense introspection; some down-time to deal with demons and drama. I chant and
chart my chakras, I learn to live on
lettuce, and water becomes my wine. And
as I step in my sanctuary of solitude and serenity, I surrender to silence.
That’s right; on the path to inner peace and purification,
I vow not to verbalize any venom. Talk about a tough time on tricky terrain, huh?
But it’s cool. Call it a cathartic spiritual cleanse.
All in all, it’s a rough retreat, but a girl’s
gotta recharge the ol’ batteries, right?
I imagine you’re insanely impressed with my
discipline and determination. Allow me to bask and bathe in the glorious glow
of your adoration! Ahhhhh! Dare I take a moment to dance like a delirious deer
in a meadow? Indeed, I shall! *prance* *prance* *shake-dance*
Totally kidding.
As much as I’d love to live the lie, you and I
both know I’m not cut out for yoga!
Summer is supposed to be about endless afternoons
spent lazing and lounging and soaking up the sun. So, from May through the
monsoons, it’s customary that I commit myself completely to being footloose and
fancy-free; my days dedicated solely to sun-kissed leisure and loosening up.
This year, because I’m a fatally flawed being,
maker of monumental mistakes and debilitating-ly dumb decisions, I flipped this
philosophy on its head. The consequences of turning turbo were brutal; crash
and burn.
Honestly, it was unintentional and unexpected. I
suppose I should also add that it un-exciting and uneventful, but I have a
feeling you frown upon fibs.
Rest assured, though, there was no relaxation
involved; only rude awakenings.
Frankly, I don’t have a flowery excuse for
disappearing; I do, however, have unstoppable 1 year old and a husband who’s
home all day, every day.
On the bright side, the beauty of being around my
boys is that accounting for age is absolutely unnecessary. Almost everything
works across the board. Fresh food, clean clothes, periodic play-time;
cake-walk!
But then there’s the terrible truth.
Take it from me: toddlers are tireless! They’re
jacked up on some juice adults just aren’t equipped to compete with.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
In the process of trying to poop my puppy out,
I’ve become a master multi-tasker with an incredibly impressive repertoire of
rhymes and riddles. Also, I’m fairly fluent in six sorts of gibberish and I can
eat a meal in under a minute.
I am still, however, incapable of exhausting an
excited infant.
Oh, did I mention the husband’s hiatus?
He’s got grad school on his mind so, he’s taken
time off to tackle the green-eyed monster of all entrance exams; the GMAT.
It’s been interesting so far. A real revelation.
Okay, it’s like an alien invasion. It’s unnerving
having him hanging around the house so much.
I create my own complications, though.
Call me crazy, but despite the fact that T is far
from conventional, I feel compelled to cater to him when he’s home. I swear
there’s no slavery or servitude. I’m just oddly old-fashioned…and a sucker for
his smile.
Anyways, the bottom line is, I blame my boys for
my absence. If it weren’t for men, there wouldn’t have been any need for this mea culpa!
There also wouldn’t have been such an amazeballs
opportunity to observe the opposite sex.
Listen up, ladies and gentlepeople; there are
lessons to be learned.
Now, not to be nostalgic, but I like to believe the husband and I are a heady love story, riddled with
romance, happiness and humor. He makes all the marks on my checklist - chilled
out, charming, champion of cheesy –picking up extra points for being polite,
passionate and progressive. He also happens to be hilarious.
What can I say? We have a winner!
FYI, though; letting love light the way is one
thing, but being in each other’s face 24/7 can breed a sort of fury that, I’m
certain, is fueled by the fires of hell. It’s in these heated moments of too
much togetherness that the husband morphs from man to maniac
Repeat after me; distance is divine!
Between you and me, I’ve never been aboard the
bad-boy bandwagon. I’m not shy about admitting that chivalry gives me the
shivers and when it comes to boy vs. beast, there’s no denying I dig dorks. Aggression
doesn’t amuse me. Trivia, however, is a total turn on. In other words, I’d pick
“periodically funny” over “perpetual fire-breather” any day of the week.
But I feel a little lonely in my battle against
badly behaved brutes.
Of course, because I don’t like to base my
complaints on conjecture, I took to Twitter to get a general opinion about the
Average Joe.
