So, I feel like an old lady.
Well, I should say that I feel like a very “experienced and WORLDLY” old
lady. Because I am sore, I can hardly
get up, I shuffle when I walk and my butt hurts.
Treadmill, RIIIGHHTT |
For the past week, Hubby and I have been challenging each
other (and no, it hasn’t been for sexual acrobatics, this time) we have been
challenging each other on the treadmill.
If Hubby does 1.5 miles, then I have to do 1.5 miles, if Hubby does 2
miles, then WHATTHEFUCK….I have to do 2 miles or suffer the SHAME and TORTURE
of having him best me.
And there ain’t
NO FUCKING way, I am going to back down….unless I die, collapse, crawl, or
basically do my own stunts on the treadmill.
*I SO ALMOST TOOK OUT THE DOGS YESTERDAY* |
For this reason, I am now suffering. And it’s my own fault. Did I have to set the speed so high or the
incline so steep??
No?
But do I, just to have one up on the hubby….Ummm…Yes?
I would so fuck with my kids like this when I get old |
So here I sit at my desk today, dreaming of the padded donut
butt ring so that my poor abused rear could get some added support. Not that my pads of butt fat are helping, but
it hurts.
And for whatever reason, raising
my arms hurts, and walking up and down my office stairs hurts, and, and, and….I’m
short.
Yes, I have just realized that I am short. And for many, many years my 6’-2” brothers
(yes, I am the fucking midget milkman’s kid) have “affectionately” called me “Willow”.
Fuck YOU J.R. for telling Steve this, and Fuck you Steve for handing me a stick |
I usually take their good natured razzing
because I have believed the lie perpetrated on my driver’s license which
indicates that I am 5’-2”. Not
incredibly tall, but not entering the oompa loompa status either.
Until the other day.
That’s when hubby asked me, “Really, how tall are you?” To which, I replied, “Fuck if I know, get the
tape measure.” WHATTHEHELL….What was I
thinking? As I am being measured by
hubby, he says, “Stand up straighter” Um
Hello? I have like the best fucking
posture around. My grandmother was an
absolute NAZI when it came to posture and manners. There was no slouching, no rolled shoulders,
and on god’s green earth, would not standing at full height be allowed.
My mom even sent me to “finishing school”
where I had to learn about place settings, how to stand with one knee slightly
bent and to walk with a full stack of books on my head while in high
heels.
As Hubby is shuffling the tape measure silently, I can feel
the glee crackling the air behind me. The
anticipation of him telling me how short I actually am is killing him and he
just can’t wait to get it out.
“Holy Fuck Willow, you are barely 5 ½ feet and I was being
generous! Shit girl, you are SHORT…..and
I mean like SHHOOOOORRRRRRRTTTTT. When
we get old together I am going to have to get you a stool so that when you
stand next to me we can hold hands. You
do know that your daughter, who is 9, is 4’-9”.
It’s going to be funny watching you discipline the tall girls, it’s a
good thing that you are so mean, ankle biter!
You will be like the cute little furry yapper dog running behind them.”
Hardee Har Har Jackass.
Hardee Har Har.
Heard that one before |
THIS SO SUCKS |
My brothers do this ALL the time |
As a grown woman, I can still SWING ma feet |
So tonight, I will be celebrating my last night of kiddie
freedom! The girls have been swept away
by Grandpa and Grammie (respectively).
My youngest is currently luxuriating in the warmth of Grammie’s
affection. She has conned Grammie into
getting her high heels (at 6…Grammie), has had ice cream every day, spent the
majority of yesterday shopping, is going to Zumba class, and will go to art
class later with Grammie.
While the
oldest is basking in Grandpa’s affection, has been spoiled with her own special
spa day, is getting Starbucks everyday (that’s right….keep her short), is
swimming in Grandpa’s covered pool while it’s snowing, and will be going on a
big fishing trip.
I will end my wonderful vacation by taking my shortie self
to Hubby’s first softball game.
Hopefully,
someone will not try to steal me as long as I hold onto his hand.
Me & Hubby...... |
Good news. Since you are short, your legs are shorter, so when you are runniing the same distance as your husband, you are actually doing way more work. You win.
ReplyDeleteI told Manfriend while we were on a run this weekend that he had to run at my pace or I was not working out with him anymore and I would just let myself go. That'll teach you for trying to push me, jerk. : )