I am having a friend and his family over for dinner tonight. I thought I hadn't seen him since 1993, so I told the Facebook universe (since these things must be shared) that I would wear my burgundy Doc Martens and Pearl Jam T-shirt so he would recognize me.
He corrected me, reminding me that we last talked at a wedding in 1999. Undaunted, I googled "Fashion in 1999" and corrected my status, stating that I would wear my low-cut jeans and a belly shirt.
Yes, ten years and two babies later, a belly shirt would be a grand idea. I didn't even like them the first time around. After all, I'm not a boy, nor am I fourteen.
I am testing myself today. I believe that one of the reasons that people don't have others over is a preoccupation with appearances. One cannot entertain without sparkling floors, fresh-cut-flowers, and a gourmet dinner with artistic garnishes.
It's a totally unrealistic standard, unless you have a staff.
So, to test myself, I am leaving things imperfect on purpose. I am sweeping the floor, but not mopping it. I am leaving the backyard in its normal, toy-strewn disarray. And, I'm moving the laundry baskets into a bedroom, and closing the door.
I must admit, I have a compulsion to stop writing this and over-clean, but I am choosing to relax for awhile. Perhaps my calm demeanor will spill over, and my children will not put his children into headlocks.
It's official, friends. I am doing a mini-triathlon. It's eight laps in the pool, four miles on a bike, and a 1.4 mile run. I've got a posse of girls doing it with me, and I am seriously excited. Do you want to know what I'm most excited about? Getting a number on my arm written in black Sharpie. Because, that, dear friends, is officially bad-ass.
It's spring, and that means that Paul is power-washing. There is no drug more addictive, and no high as powerful as the sight of gleaming white siding and a grime-free deck.
Owen's T-ball practice kept getting in the way of the massive, ten-foot dirt volcano he was constructing in the infield. Every time the ball would be in play, he would sigh, run to the next base, and construct another Mt. Distraction.
I can relate. There's that moment when bowling totally gets in the way of one's drinking. Talk about harshing my mellow.
Thanks, Mrs. 4444 for hosting Friday Fragments!