On a particularly cold and windy day last week, I resorted to taking my son down to the basement to play on the new John Deere ride-on tractor we bought him for his birthday. As he did countless laps around the mile-high mounds of clutter, I found that I just couldn’t seem to resist the urge to start going through boxes of my old stuff. When I say old stuff, I mean the stuff that I packed up and brought with me when I married my husband and moved to Denver to be with him. And the bulk of that “stuff” consists mainly of old photos from college and even a few from high school. I won’t elaborate on those old college photos, but I will say that it’s a good thing that I never plan on running for office. Somehow I don’t think that frat party shenanigans and politics mix very well.
Amid the piles of snapshots, I found one single letter-sized envelope. When I saw the return address, I immediately recognized it as a letter that I wrote to myself during the last months of my senior year of high school. It was actually an assignment that one of our teachers gave us, and we were supposed to write a letter to ourselves detailing where we thought we’d be 10 years from our high school graduation. After skimming through the first couple of sentences, I just knew that the letter fit perfectly with a post that I’d been tagged in by Ambitious Gurl.
In this post, we are supposed to write a little paragraph about where we think we’ll be 10 years from now, in the year 2020. All I can say is that I hope that I have my head screwed on a little bit better than I did back in 1995. Before I touch on where I hope to be 10 years from now, I’d like to go over that letter that I wrote in high school. Things didn’t quite pan out the way my uber-inflated head expected.
Here’s a little excerpt: (I’m warning you, I was one cocky little bitch back then, though I totally didn’t think so at the time).
“I want to be happy later in life, and I do want the finer things in life. Eventually, I hope to marry a man with great ambition, and a boat would be nice too. I’d love to marry someone who had something to do with sports, maybe a coach. However, he’ll have to pass my tests.
1. Table manners
2. Does he know the 4 parts of a boat?
3. I WANT SOME CLASS!!
As I’m reading this 10 years later, I hope to be ready to go on vacation to the islands on a yacht, where I’ll stay at one of my beach houses. If I’m not as well-off as I’d like to be, hey, a Bojangle’s biscuit would be nice right about now.”
Ok, I don’t exactly know who in the hell that arrogant little chickadee was, but I’d like to go back in time and hit her over the head with a frying pan, because things definitely did NOT pan out quite the way she’d hoped. (Although the hubster does indeed know the 4 parts of a boat because he used to be in the Coast Guard. Total coincidence how that one came true).
Now, I know that we are past the 10 year mark and that I’ve actually been out of high school for almost 15 years, but according to my 18 year old self, you would think that if I had my own home on a private island after 10 years, then I’d probably own the whole damn island after 15. Yeah…not so much!
Instead of setting sail on a yacht for the island of my wildest dreams, I was doing something a little different the other night. I was sitting on my couch with my foot propped up on my knee and was filling my husband in on the wonderful experience I had at Bloggy Boot Camp in addition to trying to put together a “sea vehicle”, as my son referred to it, out of Legos. I was also sipping a glass of wine and trying to relax a bit.
Now, you all know that my son has some serious butt issues. Well, apparently they haven’t completely gone away and he has devised new methods of coping, because he’s sick and tired of me yelling at him to stop digging in his bum.
I raised my wine glass for a little Pinot Grigio action, and somewhere mid-sip, my son sort of backed up close to me, wedged my big toe into his butt crack, and proceeded to wiggle like it was his job.
That’s right! Instead of getting a pedicure on some luxury yacht, my toe was now being held hostage in my son’s ass crack.
That girl from high school needs a total reality check. I mean, there is just nothing less glamorous than a big stinky ass toe. I went from imagining myself as some sort of yacht traveling princess to a personal butt scratcher to my 4-year old. And I don’t live in the South anymore, so I can’t even have that Bojangle’s biscuit that I was willing to settle for as a consolation prize. Yep, I was WAY off the mark on how glamorous my life would be at 32.
And this brings me to a new little phrase that I’m going to start using periodically in my posts to reiterate the fact that when you become a mother, YOU CHECK YOUR GLAMOUR AT THE DOOR. Forget having a reality check. In this case, I need a GLAM CHECK! I decided that it just wouldn’t be fair to keep the GLAM CHECK! to myself, so you can now find the cute little button that Lauren at Restored316Designs made me over on my left sidebar. Feel free to grab it and use it where you see fit!
The GLAM CHECK! is also going to become a permanent feature in a new series that I’m working on. It should debut in the next couple of weeks, so keep checking back!
I guess this brings me back to figuring out where I’d like to be in 10 years. I’m determined to avoid having another GLAM CHECK! in 2020, so here’s my more realistic version:
“Ten years from now, my son will be 14 years old (yikes)! And I sincerely hope that by then his ass issue has corrected itself. If it hasn’t, then I’m just praying that he will keep his butt-digging activities confined to the privacy of his own bedroom. I’ll even let him lock the door. And for the record son, I don’t care what other kind of games you play with your developing body in that room. You are a boy, and yes, all boys “do that.” Just please do me a favor and hide the smut magazines somewhere where the cleaning lady can’t find them. I really don’t want to lose her.”
“And as for myself, I’m just really kind of hoping that 10 years from now someone has invented a cellulite cream that actually works, or that a magic pill has been invented. Or that cellulite actually becomes all the rage and that it is totally hip and trendy to bare your cottage cheese on the beach. The more, the better. And it would be really nice if my husband and I are getting ready to set sail on a Caribbean cruise on some semi-fancy ship. I don’t need a private yacht. But it would be nice if we could have a cabin with a balcony. And it would be even nicer if one of my dear friends will let my 14-year old ass-diggin’ son stay with them for a week so that the hubster and I can get some alone time. Or if that won’t work, can we please take your kid with us so that my son has someone to hang out with besides his totally embarrassing parents? And I’m definitely over the whole Bojangle’s craze because I was over it back in 2010, but how about hookin’ me up with a fat order of McDonald’s fries? (And don’t forget about that cellulite pill. And if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like a bottle of Pinot Grigio to wash it down).