I’m cleaning up the kitchen this afternoon. And by that I mean I’m finishing up the open bottle of wine. Because, cleaning.
This week was “Graduation Week” at a bunch of local schools. My kids aren’t graduating from any milestone grade this year, but I still tear up when I see any of my friends’ kids graduate. It’s such a sweet achievement.
At every graduation “ceremony,” in order to prevent the waterworks from ruining my mascara, I think back to Colin’s pre-school graduation a couple of years ago.
After his pre-school class sang several sweet songs with their cute little graduation hats on, the teacher was getting ready to hand out diplomas. She picked one up and said, “And, now, what you’ve all been waiting for…”
Colin, without missing a beat, shouted out, “Cookies and juice!”
That’s my boy.
Erin describing The Hunger Games to Colin: “It’s like Dancing with the Stars. Except there are no couples. And a bunch of people can die on the same day.”
I think she nailed it. Don’t you?
Dan (heading to the bank): “Do you need any money?”
Me: “Nah, I raided your wallet this morning.”
Dan: “Oh. Okay… Then *I* need money.”
Every year I make a gigantic vat of meat sauce with the tomatoes from my garden. I freeze the sauce in small batches so I can pull them out for lasagna, polenta, spaghetti, whatever. I have made this lasagna recipe before using my sauce. But it’s May, and I’m waaaaaay out of sauce. Fortunately, the recipe also includes instructions for her sauce. So I made it today to bring over to my Grandma’s house for lunch. Delicious.
Oh. I followed the recipe almost exactly. Except I made it with pork sausage and ground pork. Because, really, why cook with turkey if you can cook with pork?
Colin: “Mom. I’ve got a problem.”
Me: “What’s up?”
Colin: “Well, my penis keeps sticking out of my underwear.”
Me: “Oh. That is a problem. So what have you been doing about it?”
Colin: “Well, I’ve been fixing it when no one is looking.”
Me: “Okay. That’s good to do when no one is looking. And, when is this problem happening?”
Colin: “I don’t know when it started. Or when it stopped. But it’s not happening now.” (And then he walked away.)
Huh. Problem solved?
It’s the Tuesday after a three-day holiday weekend. My yoga pants called to me this morning. And they’ve caressed me all day long.
I told myself it’s because the yoga pants are so very comfortable. I’m just trying to keep the relaxed vibe of a three-day weekend going a little bit longer.
I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that, around here, three-day weekends are also known as five-pound weekends. Nope. Nothing at all.
I found a black hair on my nipple* last week. A coarse black hair. On my nipple. Not one that was from another region and just happened to fly up to my nipple (hairs do that—you know they do), but one that was GROWING. OUT. OF. MY. NIPPLE.
I mean, come on. This growing old thing is getting out of control. I’ve learned to live with (and only moderately complain about) the laugh lines, the not-as-firm skin, the sagging breasts, THE ACNE THAT SHOULD HAVE GONE AWAY DECADES AGO, and other aspects of getting older. But black nipple hair? This. Is. Ridiculous.
Naturally, I grabbed my tweezers, plucked that fucker out, and flung it into the toilet with all of the hatred and fury my pre-coffee self could muster. Then I immediately texted my friend Ricki to tell her about this development:
Me: “I hate starting the week by plucking a black hair out of my boob. Overshare?”
Ricki: “Nope. I’d like to know why the fuck women have nipple hair at all. God’s cruel joke.”
And then she left me. Just disappeared. I guess she had better things to do than discuss my black nipple hair. I can’t imagine what. Clearly, I was having a Black Nipple Hair Crisis, and I needed to discuss it with someone. I didn’t think my husband would care to engage so I texted my other friend Lynn:
Me: “I started out today having to pluck a black hair from my boob. Not awesome.”
Lynn: “I read somewhere that those breast hairs are produced by the same hormones that make you orgasm faster. Bright side?”
Bright side? Was there a BRIGHT SIDE to having coarse black hairs growing out of my nipples? I’m going to go with HELL NO.
But her comment did get me thinking. I already have a black nipple hair—so does this mean I naturally possess this hormone? Do the levels fluctuate? If I orgasm more and faster, will I grow MORE black nipple hairs? (BTW, picturing myself having sex with hairy nipples does nothing for me. In fact, it makes me ill.) Or does this mean that I will never be able to prolong the sexual experience because I possess this hormone that makes me orgasm faster—in addition to making black hair grow on my nipples?
Because—and let’s be honest here—sex doesn’t happen as frequently as it did in my and my husband’s early dating/fornicating years, and quite frankly I don’t need anything like the threat of black nipple hairs to discourage me from getting it on. I doubt my husband would really care (or notice?), but I’m completely horrified by this prospect. A hairy chest as a result of frequent and fast orgasms seems just seems like cruel and unusual punishment.
The bottom line is: getting old sucks. Perhaps I should be grateful that I’m not having a Grey Nipple Hair Crisis?
In other news, I just used a Sharpie to cover my grey roots.
*Technically it was on my areola, but that’s not nearly as fun to say as nipple. NIPPLE. NIPPLE. NIPPLE. See what I mean?
Photo Credit: pxhidalgo / 123RF Stock Photo
BTW, my pants were in the dryer. Not the Tupperware cabinet where I first looked for them. I’m gonna go ahead and blame my husband for not making coffee this morning.