I really needed a night out. Even Junior, who is normally “Play with my trains, Mommy! Play with my trains, Mommy!” said, “Go to a bar and have a drink, Mom, you deserve it.”
Such a sweet toddler.
So last night I met my friend Jenna and her friend at a bar. Jenna’s friend was a man, and he had thick, wavy hair. Somehow I ended up sitting between them. Somehow I fought the urge to run my fingers through his thick, wavy hair all night. I kept catching glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye. It was vibrating on his head like some kind of vixenous cabana boy, one that cried, “Squeeze me, baby! I’m yours!”
He caught me staring—he even offered to let me touch his head—but I knew that once I started I would have embarked on a long and frenzied journey, one that involved joyous screeching and people staring.
God, I miss having thick, wavy hair in my life.
Sometimes when Chuck and I are lying in bed I arrange my hair so it's covering his forehead; then I caress it—just so I can pretend for a moment that I’m with someone who has hair in which I can frolic.
Ok, I’m totally kidding. Chuck and I don’t lounge in bed enough for me to play Twister with our heads. But you get the point. Instead of this
I’d just like to have this for a day
I’d also like to not be so hung over right now. But at least they make Tylenol for that.
P.S. Chuck, I'm sorry about this post. If you'd wear your damn Halloween wigs more than once a year we could get through this together. Baby.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.