1. Since I’m too lazy to haul myself out of this chair to grab the Oxford English Dictionary (which is ten feet away, right there, on the bookshelf, hanging out comfortably between a leatherbound compilation of the writings of Mark Twain given to me by Mel, and The Globe Illustrated Shakespeare) (I tell you all this as proof that I possess a respectable literary pedigree, a statement which I will now endeavor to make highly suspect), we will work with the sometimes questionable, yet always readily available, Dictionary.com definition of levity, which is:
(noun, plural levities): lightness of mind, character, or behavior; lack of appropriate seriousness or earnestness.
2. This word, perhaps more than any other, describes my life. Case in point:
After four weeks spent in a generalized housebound state, the need for, shall we say, maintenance, has become quite dire. KP and I had a pedicure two days ago, and my only regret is that I did not photograph my toes for you before that glorious event.
any old day.
As a result of aforementioned pedicure, the parts of my person requiring spa intervention dwindled to the double digits.
3. Let’s talk about that for a minute. This, this maintenance, if you will, of the 40+ year old frame is highly offensive to me. I don’t enjoy it. I don’t feel pampered by it. It’s boring, and over here anyway, the list of parts that require maintenance appears to be growing daily. It’s appalling, really, to find that every time I turn around, some other piece of this complex puzzle has gone rogue and must be preened into submission.
THIS is why I don’t own an eyelash curler. On principal, I refuse to curl my eyelashes.
(Well, that, and the fact that I could never master the mechanics of that thing. It’s terrifying, and it reminds me of…never mind. Ask me in person sometime what it reminds me of.)
4. So I took my Andy Rooney eyebrows and Hulk Hogan mustache
to the spa, where it seemed that every.single.woman in a ten-mile radius was also requiring maintenance (although none in yoga pants and a Nike Dryfit T, and most of them in heels, for the love. I’ve got an idea. Let’s dress up for torture!) where Lin put to rest an ongoing debate between myself and the Wonder Hub concerning a single, blond, wayward eyebrow hair I’ve been sporting as of late. The WH has delicately suggested that I “pluck that white sucker,” calling it the first evidence of my long, downhill slide into cronedom. I, on the other hand, have held to the belief that it is but a blonder version of my own blond(ish) hairs and choose instead to keep it in place and trimmed (despite the fact that it grows like bamboo in the Congo), simultaneously mocking him for the prematurely graying buzz atop his I-still-get-carded, 14-year-old face.
Lin, who should really be considered for a diplomatic post of some sort, plucked that white sucker without ceremony, and held it out for all to see, much like a child caught in the cookie jar.
Wonder Hub – 1
Queen of the Universe – Still Queen of the Universe.
5. I left Lin, skin smarting from the violent nature of her brand of maintenance, and realized that at least in part, my discomfort was heartburn.
In addition to my great offense in regard to all that is expected of an American woman of a certain age, I am exceedingly offended by this newest plague. It’s uncalled for! It’s unjust, in the cosmic sense of the word. Unjust! Unfair! Unmerited!
Sigh. Looking back, perhaps two mugs of Italian Roast and a handful of wasabi almonds wasn’t the best of breakfast choices. The fact that the iron-gutted teenagers with whom I live made far worse breakfast choices with impunity adds insult to acid-reflux.
6. Speaking of teenagers. The college student, fresh from a year of parent-free living, is home, doubling the laundry and tripling the grocery bill.
I love that kid.
I did, however, threaten to take away his Teenager Card. It went down like this:
KP and I were out one evening. Because my driving privileges had not yet been returned to me, I had no reason to take my keys. We returned home to a dark, locked house. Moose’s bedroom lights were on, so I didn’t panic. The Old Man goes to bed early and I didn’t want to wake him, so I texted the man-child, who, for the first time in the history of cell phones, didn’t reply to my text.
So we knocked gently.
And then a little louder.
And prayed he wasn’t in the bathroom (seriously).
And then KP started throwing her flip-flops at his windows. It went down like this:
Toss. Smack. Giggle. Toss. Smack. Guffaw! Toss. Smack. Hardee Har Har!
..until they both got lost in the monster Azalea by the front door.
And I texted some more, but this time I texted Carey.
7. The flashback, in case you were wondering, took me back to a night in 1987. My beloved brother, the same brother who once put me in the trunk of the car to sneak me into the drive-in movies (and then, um, forgot to let me out), the same brother who once duck-taped me to my bed and then did his darndest to head for the hills,
locked Carey and me out of the house. It was an innocent sneak-out, as far as sneaking out goes–we had just gone across the street to watch late-night movies–but he did it anyway, and there was nothing we could do. I remember distinctly that he stood at the front picture window, waving and laughing.
And then he went to bed.
Carey and I? We sat down under Myrtle’s green canopy in the front yard, and did what teenage girls do. We talked. When Mel got up to get the morning paper, he left the door unlocked (a routine on which I was counting heavily), at which point we, exhausted, silly, and delirious, army-crawled across the yard to the front door before strolling in like we owned the place.
That part about the bush? I’m pretty sure that was Carey.