2012. I'm tucked in the corner of a sweaty gym. It's Zumba day and I like to sneak in for the last twenty minutes of class to loosen up after lifting. I hope to disappear into the multicolored lights that stream from the ceiling, to dance without anybody noticing my awkwardness.
My friend in the front row doesn't share my sentiment. She sways back and forth to the music, not a care, and showing no interest as to whether or not anybody's watching. The moment is hers. She's free. Not one second of her seventy years is a match for the energy that pours out of her. I catch myself staring and forget my own steps. Smiling, I decide right then that I want to be just like her "when I grow up".
It's Sunday afternoon. 4pm. This picture depicts the current cause of anxiety in my household. Now a direct hit to Naples, my husband and I have family there. They chose not to evacuate before Hurricane Irma made its way across the Florida Straight.
“Have you talked to your parents?” I ask for probably the fifth time. “Nope, not yet. Seriously, Meg, you need to wait for them to call us,” he replies (also for the fifth time). Noticing my frustrated expression, he adds, “I’m sure your Dad’s fine too.”
Over the past week, we’ve gone back and forth with each of our parents over their plans to deal with the impending storm. Our get-out-of-town propaganda was promptly ignored, as we were outvoted. Every cell in the body wants to scream, “Do what I want you to do!” But at some point, the heart surrenders...
"Somedays she has no idea how she'll do it. But every single day, it still gets done." Unknown
M.S. in Marriage and Family Therapy. Earns Crossfit participation trophies. Disaster cook. Enthusiastic wife. #Boymom. Clutches her faith, not her pearls.