Sticks 'n' Stones May Break My Bones...Because Apparently I'm Old

Hello.  I would apologize for my long absence, but it is boring to have to start every single post the same way.  So I'm just going to catch you up on some things that I did or had done to me:

Did you read last April's post about the Virginia Beach nightmare vacation?  Yeah, if not, read that first and then read this to know that Oops, we did it again.  Apparently as abhorrent as my Husband and I found that trip, it was equally as GOOD for my kids who had fan-freakin'-tastic memories of it.  They clearly have a much higher tolerance for their own whining, disobedience and tantrums than we do!  So, we packed up and went again.  Surprisingly I do not have enough for a top ten worst moments of vacation this year!  That said, I may have blocked out most everything else except for one incident that repeats in my head like a scratched...we'll say DVD, but I really mean record (album, these giant music discs that used to play on "record players" and I think DJ Rub a Dub or whatever might still use in clubs).  By referencing the record album, anyone reading will already know that I am of "a certain age."  And at this certain age, a woman may become a little sensitive to references about her age.  But let me frame up my sensitivity for you a little more.

Before we went on this trip - which was planned during my kids' Easter/Spring break (all 2 days of it thanks to a school district that fears rain and fictional forecasts) - I had given up something for Lent.  I'm not Catholic which many many many MANY people pointed out, but I have always tried to give something up for Lent anyway.  So this year, as usual, on Ash Wednesday, I asked myself "what haven't I done yet that I can still give up?"  Swearing?  No, that was out by 7am.  Salt?  Too late, already had the omelet.  Drinking? Probably could have but at my "certain age" it isn't that challenging anymore - especially since my 9 year old seems to be picking up math better (meaning I don't have to try to teach him).  Heels?  No, I couldn't.  I wouldn't!  I was a 5 day a week platform heel junkie.  It was my rep.  My identity!!  But I had worn flats to work that day due to something that I am sure is probably a ligament/tendon/internal thingie related to my Olympic training for the sitting-on-your-ass-at-a-desk-all-day competition.  So the shoes were still an option.  And it was a huge challenge, so I took it.  How many pairs of flat shoes did I have to buy to make it through?  6.  Black, bone, fuchsia, royal blue, burgundy (that my boss thought were Ninja slippers) and some weird green/khaki color that matched nothing but had rhinestones and were on sale.  Some of the guys believe this was my ulterior motive.  People I didn't even know the name of at work asked if I had hurt my foot or something.  Someone that I know but don't see frequently had heard the rumor that I had given up heels - but I believe she misunderstood why as she thought it was "for Len" and was under the impression that I had a new short boyfriend.  So, why did flat shoes depress me?  Because for every inch of heel I lost, I  appeared to have gained 5 pounds.  Since I was prone to 5" heels, that was a significant weight gain.  And, that 25 pounds was on top of real weight that I gained since I had not stopped eating since last year's vacation to Virginia Beach.  I felt ugly and fat and old and short.  I started shopping in old lady stores and my friends openly mocked me.  After 40ish days of feeling ewww, I was vulnerable.

Cut to Virginia Beach.  We had made a few alterations from our trip plan from the year prior in hopes of saving a bit of sanity.  We got a hotel room that had the beds in a separate room from the living space (for the expected time outs and "JUST GO TO BED NOWWWWWW" moments) and had a mini fridge and microwave (for the oops, we forgot to eat and it is 2pm and we are all starving and crabby now issues).  And, we secured a hotel room on the boardwalk and near the interesting stuff (to save ourselves from the imminent 5 year old collapse tantrum on the sidewalk and refusal to go one more step back to the hotel).  All of those were successful strategies by the way.  As was bringing the Wii.  The only issue came when I went with my 9 year old to the bodega (aka little grocery) across the street to stock the mini fridge.  It was going fine.  Perfect.  I mean yes, I was buying bread, bologna, cheese, peanut butter, and water for $40, but generally it was going fine.  And then, out of nowhere, the friendly man behind the counter dropped the straw that broke the ego's back.  His words hung in the air while I tried to absorb what he had asked... "Is he your Grandson?"

What did he say?  Is he talking to me?  My what?  HE THINKS I AM A GRANDMOTHER?????  OF A FRIGGIN' 9 YEAR OLD???????  Through my endless obsessing with this conversation, I have developed some awesome comebacks that I wished I had used.  But I am horrified to tell you that the best I could come up with in my shock was "Uh, no, he's mine."  I'm embarrassed to tell you that because my friends clearly thought that I would have either threatened his life or stuffed his corpse into the ice cream cooler.  But I did not.  I quietly let my son look at redneck rodeo belt buckles on the way out with the enthusiasm of someone who has had her walker pulled out from under her.  And we went back to our room where my Husband got the best laugh of his calendar year.  I tell everyone who will listen so that they can tell me the man was clearly crazy or blind...after they stop laughing.

We will probably go back to Virginia again sometime and might even stay at  that same hotel.  And I will go alone to that bodega and I will be skinny and wearing 7" heels and new gravity defying boobs that came free with my facelift.  I will be there to stock my fridge.  And that night, I will eat his liver with some fava beans and a nice bottle of Metamucil.