I've experienced a legitimate trauma this month. Some of you will understand my pain when I reveal to you that I, Meg, am a recovering Northerner. I was cold, oh-so-cold, most of my childhood. This recent "Siberian Express" has done nothing more than to throw me back into stay-puff winter coat, lost one glove, boogers-have-frozen types of flashbacks. Candidly, I am a big baby when it comes to low temperatures.
She sways back and forth to the music, not a care in the world and showing very little interest in whether or not anybody's watching. This moment is between her and the beat. She's free and electric; not one second of her 70 years is a match for the energy that pours from her every move. I catch myself staring and forget my own steps in wonder. I smile in spite of myself and decide that I want to be just like her "when I grow up".
It's THAT week...the hyped-up pink and red one. My kitchen table is littered with class lists and construction paper. Victoria's Secret says there's a "countdown to sexy" this year and Kay Jewelers wants us to keep an "open heart". The folks over at Godiva are offering "tastes of love" in chocolate form. Hands down, Godiva, you win...
Football. Basketball. Baseball. Hockey. The Olympics.
In my house, my husband is rarely at home without updates blinking from the TV at low volume. I love sports, but I really don't love watching them on a screen. Being at the game is so much more fun! If you're like me, the Super Bowl is mostly an opportunity to get together with friends and to eat food that I normally wouldn't have on stock in my own kitchen. The kids run through the yard in herds and I take advantage of the precious adult interaction.
Last night, I actually watched the game with interest. Malcolm Butler demanded my attention in his first postgame interview.
M.S. in Marriage and Family Therapy. Earns Crossfit participation trophies. Disaster cook. Enthusiastic wife. #Boymom. Clutches her faith, not her pearls.