About me: I'm 40 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 8-year-old Junior, our 5-year-old Everett, our baby 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.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Some might call it making a run for it
I didn't mean to do it.
My mother was at our house babysitting. Chuck was away on business. I came home from work, and the heat and noise of the house hit me like a brick. I was cooked after a week of working, taking care of the kids and trying to scrape together a few minutes to [insert simple task that now seems monumental].
I crawled upstairs and put on my pajamas. It was 5:30 pm. I slithered downstairs and poured myself some wine. My mother helped me bathe the kids, dress them in their pajamas and read them stories. Somewhere in there I poured myself more wine.
At 8 pm I went back downstairs and surveyed the kitchen: dinner dishes, unwashed bottles, recycling, and on the table, a stack of thank-you notes for birthday presents for Everett that I'd been meaning to drop into the neighbors' mailboxes.
My mother sat at the kitchen table and started to write in her diary.
I decided to take a walk.
I grabbed the thank-you notes, put on my coat, gloves, hat and sneakers and stepped outside.
The night air was glorious. Cold, crisp, silent. I walked up the street, finally taking in all the neighborhood Christmas lights I'd been wanting to see for the last month. I peeked into people's houses. Noticed their curtains. The glare of their televisions.
Along the way I delivered my thank-you notes.
I had planned on turning back when I was done, but the mere thought of it lit a fire under my ass something fierce.
I started to run. Not well, mind you. I was pretty tipsy and in my pajamas but my feet wouldn't take me home. Instead they took me uphill and downhill, past the post office and the playground. Past the house where my fifth grade boyfriend used to live. Past everything. There was no one around. My heart was pounding in my ears. I probably looked like a crazy bear with vertigo but dammit, I was running.
It's good to be free.
But, as they say, all good things must come to an end. After months of sitting behind a desk, my unwilling legs turned rubbery and demanded I cut the shit.
I stopped and caught my breath. I remembered all those horrible years in gym class when you are forced to run a mile while the boys watched and how sometimes, you had to bend over and spit and wheeze just to get your breath back.
I felt like that same girl. Except for the wine and pajamas and two kids at home in bed.
I turned around and headed home.