I may never be able to look my 6-year-old’s music teacher in the eye again. She didn’t do anything wrong. She is a really nice woman, a great teacher. Her older son happens to be friends with my 13-year-old. A few days ago he and a few other kids were hanging out at my house. After playing basketball and volleyball they decided to play video games. My daughter was playing at a friend’s house. This gave me an entire hour to myself. I wanted to lay on the bed and eat a pan of chocolate brownies. I decided, instead, to run on the treadmill in my bedroom. Honey, my metabolism is in a coma and needs a boost. I can’t have a muffin top when I run into Ryan Gosling at Dollar General and he falls madly in love with me near the plastic flower display.
I was mid-workout, rockin’ to Ace of Base (All that she wants is another baby…) when the doorbell rang. The music teacher was here to pick up her son. I thought about sending a text explaining why I didn’t answer the door. Well, that would be rude. So, I jumped off the treadmill and greeted her from the top of the stairs, apologizing for my attire and profuse sweating. I finished my workout and went into the bathroom to shower. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped dead in my tracks. I looked like the loser of a wet t-shirt contest in Myrtle Beach. Did I really just greet a parent wearing my husband’s old t-shirt with a black bra underneath? Yep and because of all that perspiration, the shirt was completely see-through. I suppose it could have been worse. I could’ve worn a Hooters uniform.