It’s only Saturday afternoon and I’m already bummed about our weekend of uneventfulness.
Craig has to work today, his usual day off. There was some sort of issue at work and the only way to rectify said issue is for Craig to work the next few Saturdays.
This is all fine and dandy and not exactly out of the ordinary. Like they say when you sign up for this gig, “you’ve just sold your life to Uncle Sam, you sucker.” Or something like that.
Always a supportive military spouse, I’ve learned go with the flow. However, I’ve become quite accustomed to attending an early morning Body Attack class, which I affectionately refer to as my “Saturday morning beating” each week. With Craig away at work, my gym plans are thrown out the window this morning.
Hrmph. The sacrifices I have to make!
Some women send their husbands off on 12-18 month deployments. My friend had a baby three weeks after her husband deployed.
And I have to give up my Saturday morning exercise class for a few weeks.
Oh the horror!
Don’t you feel sorry for me?
I realize I could drag Caroline with me and shove her in the kid’s room for an hour, but, well, the class starts at 8 and I’m not sure I could endure the excessive whining that would ensue if I made her come along. Whining drives me insane, and whining before 8am might cause me to do things I’d later regret.
If this Saturday morning work thing goes on for too long, I may have to bite the bullet, put in a set of ear plugs, bring Caroline with me and bribe her with McDonald’s after.
Speaking of McDonalds, as I so often do. There is one across the parking lot from my gym. The smell of coffee and hash browns permeates the air in the mornings and suddenly makes the yogurt, cottage cheese, banana concoction I eat for breakfast every day seem most unsatisfying.
The smell brings me back to my youth and all the time I spent making pancakes and hocking Big Macs in the drive thru. It also reminds me of the huge nasty burn the hash brown fryer basket gave me on my thumb and how when I first started working there we had a Jurassic Park promotion going on and I found myself saying “Jurassic Puck” instead of “Jurassic Park cup” when asking if the customers would like to super size their value meals and get the collectible plastic cup.
Seriously, that was over sixteen years ago and I still remember that. And yet, I can’t remember Craig’s cell phone number.
That was a spectacular tangential paragraph of nonsense.
Caroline and I are hanging in the heazy. After demanding lunch at 10:40am, and quickly scarfing it down, Caroline has found herself outside with some of the neighborhood kids. Correction, the kids are now in the house, no doubt plotting something messy.
And here I sit, with nothing but a pile of laundry waiting for me to scale, whining to the world wide web. Telling my sad tale. A tale of sacrifice and true patriotism.
Giving up what I love most so my husband can go to work, doing whatever it is he does all day.
We’re nothing if not inspiring.