I had a 45-minute window last night in which to 1) get dinner in the oven, 2) highlight my outgrowth, 3) put groceries away and 4) vacuum The Apartment.
I’d gotten as far as No. 1 and pressed a single foil of goopy blue highlighting cream onto my head before my cell phone rang.
“I’m just leaving the game. I should be there in 35 minutes.” It was D.
It was 8 p.m. already? One of the first naps I’d attempted in months left me passed out on my sofa until nearly 6 p.m., until which I forced myself from extreme comfort and Justin Timberlake’s FutureSexLoveSounds playing on repeat from the DVD D left in the machine hours earlier.
Must. Work. Out. Must. Get. Food. Must. Fix. Outgrowth.
Faster than I could wipe the sleep from my eyes, a mental checklist had sprung up out of nowhere. Which helped get me up, of course.
Halfway to the gym, though, I realized a) I didn’t have a trashy tabloid to keep me distracted on the elliptical, which was fine because, oh, I’ll at least have my music … which led to realizing that b) I left my MP3 player in The Apartment. Smart you are not, MIG.
Cruising past the gym, I proceed to spend $50 in all of 20 minutes and fly back home to start on other to dos before D came over. (Because, sorry, it’s simply too soon for him to be seeing me as Metal Foil Girl.)
But how’s this for multitasking?: A cheesy lasagna bakes in the oven at 400 degrees, and while MIG waits for the blue streaks in her hair to dry (to bleach the dull dishwatery outgrowth that’s thrown her into a hairstyle funk), she vacuums up bits of wrapping paper and popcorn cluttering the sofa area, and attempts to watch the end of the movie she rented last week. ( Yes, without sound.)
A 10-minute reprieve: D calls from a superstore asking if I need anything while he picks up some bathroom odds and ends for himself. Why yes, I do need toilet paper, thank you. And Kleenex, how did you know? (He is so thoughtful, right?) By the time he lugs in an armful of bags, dinner’s staying warm in the oven and I’ve already set the table.
* * *
(Aside: As we sit together, licking our lips and breathing in the cheesy aroma of lasagna, we lock eyes and both think the same thing at the same time. I say: “We should say a prayer first, maybe start -”
“-a new tradition?” he finishes.
I smile. “Yeah. So, how should we do it?” I’m mentally weighing rehearsed ‘God is great…’ or “Come Lord Jesus…” prayers my family recites every evening against an option to ad-lib.
He ponders. “Well, maybe just say it as we go, like my brother did at Christmas.”
“Yeah, that’d be perfect. Do you wanna do it?”
“OK, but I’m not very good at it. Maybe you should do it.”
“I know, me either. But-”
“OK, I’ll try it,” he says, and we bow our heads. It felt like such a grown-up thing to do, such a big thing to set the tone for something that will help define our relationship. It’s something I’ve honestly never shared with a guy before, and something that fills my soul to the brim, where I’d even be so cheesy to declare “my cup runneth over.”)
