Cleansing Thoughts.

On the first morning of my Retirement four months ago, I laid in bed, drank coffee, and awaited the arrival of my cleaning lady.

I didn’t have a kid. I wasn’t THAT pregnant. And I surely had nothing else to do that day besides maybe go out to lunch. Why on earth couldn’t I clean my own home?            Answer: I didn’t want to.

Anna came today, as she does every other Monday. At this point, I don’t know if it’s the mildew-free shower or the company I look forward to most.

No streaks!

What life luxury can’t you let go of?

Liz Lemon, I presume.

Over the last week, I decided to do something completely unlike me. So I took a short-term job working at lululemon‘s first U.S. warehouse sale. And by “took a job,” I don’t mean signed on as a PR consultant or advised them on their media strategy. I straight up unpacked boxes and worked the cash registers. I made chit chat with guests.  I asked them if they found everything ok. I used their first names after I saw their credit cards. I made eye contact. Sort of. It was good, honest, on-your-feet work, and I liked it. Until I saw people I knew from high school.

I used to have an Important Career. Four months ago, I gave it up. There is a part of me that isn’t ready to accept that I am now a stay-at-homer.  Or a warehouse-sale-in-a-convention-center girl. Was I embarrassed to be spotted there? Not really, because it was a cool event. But what if the people who saw me thought, “That’s all she’s up to?” Would I care?

Would you?

Wait, you’re ALL ordering the small salad?

Took the baby out to lunch today with three former co-workers, all with kids under 14 months. Being the lady that I am, I planned on ordering the chopped chicken salad (entree portion, of course). But I ordered 3rd. Behind the other two women who ordered the small version. Dressing on the side.


I upped the ante by asking for NO dressing- don’t even bother bringing it! Take that.

Over lunch, we had a delightful conversation about our wills and who would raise our children if we weren’t around. Also, what our husbands would do without us.

Just a little pleasant salad talk.

Then I went home and ate my second lunch.

I feel like I’d be lying to you all if I didn’t tell you I went to a Zumba class last night.

It’s true.

In my quest to lose the remaining baby weight that requires me to fasten my pants with a jerry-rigged hair band, I’m trying anything. So last night, I stood in the back right corner of the Zumba room at my gym and sweated to the beat of A Man Named Victor. Depending on who you talked to, Victor is either a revered genius, a samba-ing Joel Osteen-meets-Ricky Martin,  or a really terrible teacher.

Pro-Victor: Women were lined up early, squealing to tell me how I lucky I was to be there, as the regular teacher was absent and a sub was teaching.”VICTOR IS THE BEST, OMYMYGOD YOU CAME ON THE BEST NIGHT!”

Anti-Victor: After shaking her head in disgust and grapevine-defiance for 25 minutes, the woman next to me literally stormed out of the class after telling me that “THIS is NOT Zumba.” She assured me that the truest, purest form was only to be achieved on Friday nights at 6:30 with Jessica. This sentiment was backed up by another woman, who interestingly enough was one of the women who, just minutes before, assured me I was in for the best 55 minutes of my life. A Victor defector.

I may never know who was right. I may never know which side of the fence I stand on. The only thing I DO know is that Victor was wearing this:

Except it was the tank top version.