January 13, 2011
Every two weeks or so, I go to the library. And for some reason, I never go to the library alone. Sure I have time to go to the library by myself--I could always go during one of my work days--but every time I end up at the library, I'm there with an over-tired baby and a kindergartner who's about to pee his pants.
Our routine is always the same. We enter through the back door in the rear of the building--the door that opens right into the children's section. We wander over to the movie section where James picks something completely random that will hold his attention for four seconds (documentaries, Baby Einstein, princess stories, and so on and so forth), I pick out a movie that he can watch fourteen times in a row without a speck of boredom, and then we get a Star Wars book.
We pay our late fee (because I'm Amy Lawson, we always have a late fee), and we walk upstairs to the adult section. By this time, James is inevitably doing that way-too-close spitty whisper thing into my ear. He's all, "I NEED TO HAVE A CHEESE STICK WHEN WE GET HOME," and Maggie's flopping around like a haddock out of water--I can barely hang on to her.
You can imagine that I don't have a whole lot of time to chose a book for myself. I've come to realize that browsing, and words like hmmmmmmmmmmmmm, are for library patrons who don't have kids. As a result, I've gotten into the habit of walking straight over to the New Non-Fiction shelf, picking two books based on completely on their covers, and getting the hell out of dodge.
I've done all kind of reading on account of this method. I now consider myself to be an expert on drug addiction, gardening, cheese making, reflexology, and business.
This past week I ended up grabbing a sewing book, and a book called The Power by Rhonda Byrne. For those of you who don't know, it's a sequel to the wildly successful book/movie, The Secret. According the The Power, it's all about love. Love, love, love, love, love.
Want to get rich? Love.
Want to be famous? Love.
Want to have ginormous boobies? Love, love, love.
To sum it all up, if we can all just learn to love, we can all achieve our wildest dreams--every single one of them.
After reading the first three chapters, I thought to myself, "Well sh!t. Here's what I've been missing! I'm just gonna love my way into the Boston Marathon. Love, love, love, love, love."
So I went down into my basement, I hopped on the treadmill and thought, "I love running, and I love this treadmill!"
Then I turned on the television, you know, the television I love, flipped through the channels and found The Real Housewives on the CW--a show which I happen to looooove. I watched the girls for thirty-eight minutes or so, came to love each one of them individually as if they were my rich aunts, and was cranking along at a 7:45 pace.
It barely felt like I was working. It felt a lot more like I was gliding. Effortlessly. Like a winged gazelle. There was no other explanation--it had to have been the love. After all, I was even loving on my red carpet and dark wood panelling. I was like, "I loooove1970s home style choices!!!!"
Love, love, love, love, HOLY #$%^!
Right in the middle of my looooove fest, my treadmill--the one I love so much--went and gave up the ghost.
It went from 8.5 mph to 0 mph in less than a second flat. Clearly, I was on my ass--and let me make it abundantly clear that the foot to ass transition was not even slightly graceful.
James, who was down in the basement practicing his ninja skills, turned toward me with huge round eyes and his mouth hanging open. When he finally had the wherewithal to speak, he said, "Wow, Mom. I really, really LOVED that trick."
And I was like, "Well bud, I really, really think I dislocated my shoulder. Go get your father."