Well, y’all will probably be as relieved as I was to know that according to some “experts” on the internet, my eyelashes should grow back in six to eight weeks. In the meantime I will be walking around with a naked eye because false eyelashes aren’t really in the cards for me due to the fact that I have the manual dexterity of a monkey with oversized hands that has just finished a bottle of cheap tequila.
It’s really for the best because I’d probably end up developing some sort of addiction to long, lush lashes and before you know it I’d look like Zsa Zsa Gabor but younger and brunette. And possibly alive.
Is Zsa Zsa still with us? I don’t want to put someone prematurely in their grave. I already did that once upon a time to Ed McMahon and I just felt awful about it for nearly three seconds.
Anyway, yesterday Caroline had school. It was pajama day and also, pancake day. Can anyone guess what letter they are learning this week?
I knew that you could.
I dressed her in new pajamas that I purchased at Target. I knew she would love them because they had an iron-on transfer kitten on the shirt and she is a fan of kitschy. Sure enough, when she saw them she jumped into my arms and gave me a big hug. It’s just a matter of time before I completely give in to her fashion desires and begin purchasing shirts that glitter and sparkle and feature twee little animals like puppies and unicorns.
After I dropped Caroline and her homage to the 70’s t-shirt off at preschool, I headed home. I was determined to do some form of exercise because it has come to my attention that I am officially three months away from having to wear a swimsuit in public almost every day.
If that doesn’t strike fear in your heart then you are a better woman than me.
As I sadly discovered while looking in the dressing room mirror at Target, my backside is not really swimsuit ready. It has spent this chilly winter comfortably wrapped in flannel pajama bottoms, yoga pants and jeans. It has led a sheltered, pampered life since October when it discovered the evil that is candy corn, and then binged on in to December in the form of homemade toffee. And now it must pay.
I put the dogs on their leashes and we headed out with all the grace of the aforementioned monkey. We walked, and jogged, and got horrendous side cramps from the exertion. Of course that might have just been Scout and me because Bruiser seemed totally fine. He’s always been so athletic.
When we finally arrived back home I decided I needed to continue to pay the toffee piper and did about forty lunges on the back porch and then some stomach crunches. I say “some” because I lost count about the time I started crying from the pain.
At that point my legs and abdominal muscles let me know that I am a dirty, rotten, toffee-eating hag and they would like to go live on someone else’s body.
Which makes me hopeful that perhaps Giselle Bundchen legs are also looking for a new body and if so, I am totally available.