This morning I was showing Jake my prematurely gray hair, and I commented that maybe I should just let it go, then we could be that couple, you know, with the little kids and the old people hair. Then I realized what we would really be: that handsome, distinguished, J.Crew-model-looking-guy with the salt and pepper hair, with his wife, the old witch. Jake replied, "no, no, you'd be the sexy witch. You hear about the sexy librarian, but you never hear about the sexy witch." Well, now, I could be both. Still, I'm not sure if that was a compliment, Jake.
While at the Urgent Care last week, the doctor said:
So, two kids, huh? (Had Jane and Tom with me).
Er, no. Four.
(He wrinkled his brow). How old are they?
He looked at me weird, then continued to check in everybody's ears. A few minutes later, he pipes up: So, what are you? 25? 26?
No, 35. (I'm not actually 35 yet, but I like to start practicing early, so by the time I actually am 35, announcing the fact will be old hat.)
So I decided I was offended, because he was implying that I started having kids at 16, but then I realized, no. I have two choices here. I can be offended, or I can be pleased that he thinks I'm 25. The only way I can be 25, and still be dragging all these old kids around, is to have started birthing them extra young. Or maybe I can pretend to be their nubile young stepmother. But no. They might be permanently damaged if I publicly disown them.
So, teen mom it is.
And 25 already.
I'm so pleased.
Last night at the Fresh and Easy, I ran into the Efnors, who told me they had just seen a scorpion in my yard while they were walking their dog, but decided not to to kill it. It was yea big, they said. (Which is to say, BIG. I've seen smaller squirrels). Um, HELLO? What kind of neighbors don't squish the scorpion, then TELL me about it? I'm going to get a black light, then catch any scorpions I find and release them into the Efnor's yard, because apparently they have a soft spot for scorpions. Which I do not. They can run the SR Ranch Scorp Sanctuary, si quieren. Normally, any scorps I find would get the business end of my hammer.
This morning as we got in the car to take Sam to preschool, Sam says:
Mom, I hope my teacher doesn't see you in that outfit.
What, this outfit? This outfit was carefully crafted to look purposefully vague. Jammies? Maybe. But I could also totally be on my way to yoga. Witch yoga, maybe. My hair is sorta crazy like I already explained. Or braless yoga. Cause I forgot to add my suppotive underfashions, even though I do still have them, because I didn't throw any at Michael McLean.
Then I explained to Sam that 25-year-olds can get away with this sort of haphazard grooming. It's only when you approach 35, that you gotta worry about keeping your stuff tight.
Which, for me, is a long way off.