Tuesday.

In a brief, sweating through my bra moment between sleepovers and outdoor activities last week, I determined to launch a better me campaign and declared Tuesdays as my day to implement the bettering plan.  I’m calling it time-away-tuesday.  Some of my plans were derailed.  Joining Weight Watchers (again) was pushed back for another week so we could go to the airport and welcome home my in laws from Florida, undoubtedly a nicer way to spend the dinner hour than paying to have a stranger find out how much I weigh.  And I gave my seven o’clock counseling session to Dan since, with all the health problems his parents are having he needed it more than I did.  I can wait another week to start delving into how messed up I really am.  I did, however, still get to meet my bosom friend (you know who you are) for tea at Schuler’s and, in the process, discovered that perhaps sitting with her for the evening got me farther than an hour of Psychotherapy would have.  And at $2.37 for the bottle of Absopure (owners of Schulers, if you’re reading this…Absopure?  Really?), considerable cheaper than counseling.  Now if she would hand me a pamphlet at the end next time, you could convince me to swear off counseling forever.
Not that this gig is bad.  This wiping snotty noses-picking up soggy snow gear from the floor (again)-reading books on the couch with my girlies while wearing warm nummies and watching the snow fall outside-making a casserole for dinner-tackling the boys so I can get some sugar-cleaning the house even though it’s going to be unclean in three minutes-coaching the boys through their spelling lists even when English makes no sense and was clearly invented by idiots-collecting eggs from the chickens-gig that I have.  I love this gig more than anything.  But I’ve been accused of not taking enough time for myself and sometimes I feel like in the midst of all this stuff I’ve lost me.  So I’m taking Tuesdays.  Thanks friend (you still know who you are) for helping me launch my self-help program and for making me realize that in the used book section of Schulers, sitting at a table in front of a bottle of Absopure was a little piece of Megan that was missing.  Not anymore.  This is me being real.

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