Wings

I am a fair weather friend. Should I admit that out loud? In my own defense, I speak strictly with regards to the actual weather. I will only walk outside with the girls in my neighborhood from April thru November, after that, you will find me in the deep dark recesses of the basement, plodding along at 3.7 miles per hour for exactly 2.0 miles, no more, often less if I can think of any reason at all. It is mind-numbingly boring but at least I don’t shiver the whole rest of the day.

It is a shame I am such a wimp, because these girls I walk with are anything but boring. We discuss everything, from politics to the dismal reality that we can only sneeze if our tanks are empty. My favorite thing about these girls is that they never say anything about anyone who is not there that they wouldn’t say if they were there. Classy. However, there is one group for which we have no such boundaries: our children. This is where we let out our frustrations so that we can better keep up the façade of a calm demeanor in their presence.

One morning, toward the end of May last year, one of the moms was sharing how thrilled she would be when school got out so she could quit being “the Home Work Bully.” She said, “ Sometimes I think I should just go get one of those barbed wire tattoos right here on my upper arm, that way, maybe when I flex my arm to make a fist, it will frighten them sufficiently that I won’t actually have to say “Get Back To Work” for the 100th time.” One of the other girls piped up with, “Oh, yes, a tattoo! I want to go get wings tattooed on my upper arms. It is not like these ham hocks I have goin here are going to get smaller, and this way as my upper arm keeps expanding, my wings will get bigger too.” That was too much, we had to stop walking so we could cross our legs 'till we quit laughing.