This post was typed into an email, to myself on January 3. It has imperfections because I typed it with my thumbs on my cell phone.
As I sit at the Foggy Goggle, wearing my husband’s old snowboarding boots and board pants that are too tight on my postpartum hips, whilst sipping my IPA…i covertly observe the two,young, women across the bar delicately eating nachos. With their perfectly manicured finger tips, and with precise precision they place one nacho at a time between their red lip pouts. Their profiles are perfect with their teeny noses…almost like whos but not ya know…then there’s me with my honker of a broken nose from my soccer days.
I am reminded of the younger woman I once was, with my priorities that were completely out of whack. My mood depended on a number on the scale. Whereas today, my mood elevates just thinking of my son or my husband and how beautiful, incredible, instant, amazing motherhood is. Motherhood did what years of therapy probably could not do for me, it made me shed my ridiculousness.
Why am I sitting at the Foggy Goggle instead of boarding with my husband, writing this whole thing with my thumbs and my cellphone? Well because an IPA feels better than a broken ass. The slopes are icy, and my lumbar spine is herniated. Also, I’m daydreaming about how great it is going to feel when I pick my momma chirping 5-month old up and he presses his cheek against mine.