I bike with no gloves because I want to feel the cold today. I want to feel all tough mudder despite the fact my helmet is a pink cheetah pattern – admit it – you want it.
Crossfit Charlie is wearing off on me. You should see what I can “snatch”.
This morning I am an actor, this afternoon I am a coach, this evening I am a script editor until eleven and now I’m a writer until one. And I haven’t returned a call. Nothing personal.
They say, these days, it isn’t fashionable to be “busy”. Oh to be fashionable.
I find a forgotten pocket in my gym bag and pull out a six hundred dollar cheque. Don’t you love those forgotten pocket days?
And in-between all the various employments there is a smattering of mothering. A cuddle and a special request dinner and Italian is called out over the trees and barking dogs and laughter about a smart mouthed dragon. But when mathematics come around arm in arm with a full blown rebellion…I have to lay down the law and send my kid to bed early with no snack, no story and certainly no sorry. In a rare display of full on “coming on 9 hormones” she yells out, “I hate God for making me!” Then kind of smirks with pride because she has really invented a good one. Yeah? Well, don’t mess with mudder when the gloves are off. You’re still going to bed, kid. Your homework is: respect.
My girl’s got game. I recognize that strength. Momentarily misplaced.
I lay back with a sigh and recall my naturopath suggesting my body is restless. Restless. Restless. Why I can’t sleep. Me? I close my eyes and slip away into an erotic dream about butterflies in a flutter.
