I’ve been horrible about posting lately. Mostly because every ounce of energy I have has been sucked dry by a 5 AM fitness boot camp. I cannot be clever in this state of exhaustion and pain. Trust me, parts I didn’t even know I had, hurt. But I absolutely have to do it because the husband has a 20-year reunion coming up in the fall.
For the uninitiated in small town reunions, he can come back looking any way at all: fat, bald, gray, wrinkled, converted. As long as he is gainfully employed, no one cares. They will judge him by me. What kind of wife did he bag? Is she hot? Is she thin? Is she tan? Is she charming? And lest you think I exaggerate for the purpose of a good blog post, it’s important to remember that I know exactly what these judgy women say behind people’s backs because I’m usually the one doing the talking.
So to boot camp I go, to get into some kind of reasonable shape for this unholy cattle call of feminine judgement masquerading as a time to catch up with old friends. I’m pretty sure I’m going to die on the spot during the first week, when the girl next to me, who is on her THIRD boot camp, says, “Don’t worry.” So I’m starting to feel a bit of comfort. Until she finishes with, “It gets worse from here.”
Does the suicide hot line know about this woman? Because I really think she’s missed her calling.