My mom came back from a trip recently and tried to tell me…hold on, I need to laugh some more about this. She tried to convince me that I wouldn’t be afraid to fly if only I “flew first class”. Does everyone have their own eject pod in first class, mom? Yeah, I didn’t think so. A complimentary neck pillow while I lean back in a chair is not going to distract me from the LAW OF GRAVITY. We went back and forth for awhile before I finally told her that the ONLY way I will EVER feel comfortable flying is if they invent a plane that has really really really long legs that extend all the way to the ground with wheels.
That settled that.
Also making me anxious is that I cannot find the cable to my laptop, someone to do my highlights for under $100, or a decent tote bag. Preferably one that fits my computer, a good book, my iPod, and a small parachute.
So, I guess I would be worried about the social stuff at Blogher like other bloggers seem to be, but the whole “fear of death” thing puts the fear of “standing alone against a wall with a handful of free keychains and mousepads” thing into perspective.
I think it’s reverse psychology. In reverse.
On a different note, Savannah is seven now. And while I’m sure there are some lovely things to say about seven, I sort of miss six like crazy. Also, one through five.
I don’t know what it is about seven, but all of the sudden my daughter has become my mother. And not in a cute way like I wrote about before which leaves you chuckling, but in a way that leaves you feeling like you’re getting smacked in the head with a sock full of quarters most days.
Take yesterday for instance. I’m getting my brows* waxed and my friend was introducing me to some other women who are of the same religion, but go to a different congregation. Since Chris and I are not the most “active” in our congregation right now, I immediately feel uneasy when one of the women asks “Oh! Do you know the Festersons?”.
I pretend like I’m thinking. “Uuuuh, no. I don’t believe so”.
“How about the Wobblebottoms?”
I’m scrunching my face up into what I hope is a searching expression when Savannah says loudly and clearly “The only person my mom knows there is my dad.”
And dare I claim that she looked a little self-satisfied? Even smug?
Yeah. So, I’m returning seven. It just isn’t what I expected. I’d like to exchange it for a five and a two. Thankssomuchthat’dbegreat.
And in case you’re wondering, yes, I have already downloaded all of my favorite pictures of Savannah to my phone so that I can stare at them as I hurtle toward Chicago praying that God lets me see eight.
I'm not all that fond of 31 if you want to know the truth.
*Also maybe three other areas of my face. I’m Italian. If I don’t wax my facial hair will all grow together meeting in the middle until I can pull it into a jaunty front ponytail.