Nothing harshes a post-massage buzz like turning on your phone and discovering you've just flaked on meeting a friend at the gym. Maybe there's something to all this "I'll check my calendar" business everyone's always going on about. I feel so guilty. And wanna know just how much of a space-case I am? I actually worked out before my massage. Totally oblivious. Ugh.
But in my defense (just a little?) this wasn't exactly a typical week. Now that it's winding down, I can see that.
It started at dawn on Monday with the departure of our pater familias for parts north. Yes, he had just gotten back. The man's in demand. After school, we had ice skating and I had obsessively arranged to hand Jarrah off to a babysitter afterward with only seconds to spare before being late for music rehearsal. I didn't get home until 10:00, though learning those four-part harmonies is so fun I can't believe it's legal.
Tuesday morning I had my first voice lesson at Southwestern College. It's a private lesson, but my teacher reserves a piano room there. I had a little stress finding the place and somewhere to park, but the lesson was fun and I learned that I can warm up my voice by moaning. Let's just say I'll only be doing that alone in the car.
Wednesday was minimum day and I picked Jarrah up and drove her to Cardiff to see the new Go-Pro digs for the first time. That was pretty cool, and David took us to the yummy Kook's Cafe for lunch. Then he was off to a meeting and we had time to kill before Jarrah's annual check-up, which I filled with shopping for "character shoes with a heel." Jarrah was freaking out in the tiny, musty dance shop so I didn't buy them yet. The check-up was a big success: no shots this year, and no ear-wax removal, either. Jarrah was giddy with relief and passed her eye and ear tests in record time. We also discovered that she's in the 86th percentile for height and 65th for weight--down about 10 percent in both this year. Her doctor says she's seriously overweight for a 7-year-old but remarkably underweight for her actual height "which is what you want." Doc was also very impressed to find her reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she entered the room. I was pretty proud.
Then I proceeded to go the wrong way on the freeway to get back to David's office, finally got to drop her off and scram (if "scram" can describe the 45 minutes in traffic) home for an hour of hair and makeup for our professional head shots that night. Also I had another of those three-hour music rehearsals. Not that I'm complaining, but man, she works hard for the money. And there is none.
And I got home late and then had to set the alarm for 5:30 because I am insane and agreed to teach a Nia class at 6:30. I am not a morning person. I'm not even a "before noon" person. I once had a roommate whom I banned from listening to NPR when she got ready for work "because I can't bear talking before 10:00." When I got there (in the dark!) it was like "Nia Bizarro World"--half the class was MEN! Whoa! Everyone was very nice and I enjoyed it, even though I was slightly panicking during the first song because I haven't taught in like three months. When I came out of the dance room, I saw sun pouring through the windows and I said--out loud and with genuine wonder--"And it's daytime." That marked the first time I've ever gone into the gym in the dark and come out in the light instead of the other way around.
That day felt about three days long, but instead of getting to take it easy, Jarrah and I had matching dentist appointments after school. You get your money's worth at this place--just the cleaning took an hour. I seethed when I discovered that Number Four of Jarrah's four 6-year molars popped in stealthily during our six-month absence and already has a freakin' cavity in it. Which is annoying in itself, but what's really fit-inducing is now that molar can't be sealed like its three friends and she will be subject to a million more cavities in it, which I'm sure she'll be collecting with impressive diligence starting now. I started yelling, "Maybe we just need to come in every two months!" but I could tell everyone thought I was over-reacting.
By the time I was making dinner and helping with geometry (has it come to this? Oh, handsome 9th-grade geometry teacher whose name I forget and whom I tormented to near-tears daily, karma is a you-know-what) I felt like I was on nitrous. Only the promise of Downton Abbey (David and I are newly hooked) kept me awake until bedtime.
And there I was this morning, literally rearranging my sock drawer, thinking I had a whole morning to do absolutely nothing. Do they still make those File-o-Faxes? I think I need one of those.