This morning I was in my kitchen, rooting around in the cupboards for something. Lets say it was popcorn. In terms of height, I'm what some might call "short," or perhaps "tiny." Personally, I prefer "pocket-sized." I'm 5'2" and married tall, but we all know how that ended up, so only recently have I had to start fending for myself again when it comes to things like...reaching stuff.
But that's not what this blog post is about. I can scramble onto a countertop like an adorable pocket-sized mountain goat if there's something I need badly enough - and was dumb enough to climb up there and place out of my own reach in the first place. Nope. Don't need a man for that.
I'll admit that for a split second early this morning I did, in fact, miss having a man around. But it was not for the handy or helpful reasons that tend to come along with some of the male species - reaching stuff, opening pickle jars, putting their heads under car hoods and pretending they know what to do there, etc. It was because when I looked in the mirror after being awake for several hours, I noticed that there was a CRAZY hair sticking out of my face. Not near my hairline, also not somewhere predictable and laughable like, say, on my chin. It was near my left cheekbone. Just growing there, obviously for a while given the length of it, luckily blond (?) and so I told myself that all of the people I'd come into contact with over the last, what, two weeks? hadn't noticed it.
Given my past experience, I assume that if I had a live-in man in my life, I would have been faced with a quizzical look ages ago, and had an interaction something like the following:
Man - "what the hell is on your face?!"
Me - (hand covers face) "what?!"
Man - "there's, like, a crazy hair sticking out of your face!"
Me - (muffled moan of humiliation) "leave me aloooooone!"
Man - "uncover your face, lemme get it!"
Me - "Nnnoooooooo!"
Man - (wrestling me to the bed/couch/ground and pinning me down while simultaneously peeling my weakling arms from my face) "stay still! Its freaking me out!" (peering closely at my face) "its so weird! I have to get it!"
Me - (bracing and wincing while hair is plucked from my face)
Man - (showing me the hair) "you are the hairiest person I know. You're like a hobbit."
Me - "I know."
I can believe that no one actually noticed this thing because now I rely on my children to tell me when something about me is unacceptable for public viewing. Fortunately like me, they have a very fuzzy definition of what a "presentable" appearance is. Pocahontas braids and running shoes? Not a problem. Two different earrings? Not so much. Evie will catch that and take it upon herself to forcibly correct it before I've even completely woken up.
Now that I think about it, I can depend on my kids for more than just calling me out on any of my freakishness or fashion faux pas. I can totally hold Jonah on my shoulders. And he can hold Evie on his. Together, my kids and I can reach all kinds of popcorn!