So you had a bad day…

Alternately titled “And the Wind Drove Her Mad.”

Yesterday, our family cruised to Miles City to watch our nephew wrestle at the Cowboy Classic Invitational Wrestling Tournament Thingamajig.  The day started out fun, optimistic, upbeat, but the wind… holy balls, the wind.  As we came and went from the tournament, driving around aimlessly so the girls could nap, I felt a mounting ball of tension growing between  my shoulder blades.  Mounting, mounting, mounting.  It was awful.  And spread like a pool of spilled milk into every facet of our day. 

Where should we eat lunch?  Well, on the way up, we decided it would be cafe day and had an incredible breakfast at The Speedway in Forsyth.  When we left there, we tossed around the idea of the 600 Cafe.  Then on the morning nap cruise, I found myself driving by the Airport Inn, a hillside cafe I remember from my childhood that is rumored to have patented their fingersteaks.  But when I pick Allan up, he wants either McDonalds or Taco Johns.  Well, McDonalds goes against every moral that I somewhat subscribe too and Taco Johns, last time I ate there I threw up a MOUTHFUL OF GREASE.  There’s not enough sour cream in the world to slather over that memory.  But, as Allan pointed out, I wasn’t even hungry.  And he was right, so we drove across Miles City, destination: Fast Food.  And as we drove, the mounting mounting mounting tension mounted even more.  I did not want to feed my girls McDonalds**.  Even though, like every attempt to feed them, they just throw the food around cause they filled up on gold-fish and shopping cart handlebars, I would rather they throw around the food that we bought for them at a local establishment… I’m just weird that way.  We make our way across town to Mc-fucking-Donalds.  I haven’t said a word about my somewhat subscribed to morals, which in and of itself, took every fiber of my being to NOT say anything by chanting repeatedly, “You’re not even hungry, you’re not even hungry.”  We got out of the truck, the wind howling, and Allan looks across the car seats at me and says, “Let’s just go to the 600.”  Mounting tension.  I rolled my eyes, and made that back-throat growl of irritation and pulled Reese out of her car seat then marched into McDonalds, right to the very end of a line of thirty people.  Mounting tension.  When Allan and Avery reached the door, he just laughed, and was like, “Let’s go, this is crazy.”

So, we drove back across Miles City to the 600 cafe.  We ordered our meals.  We waited for our meals.  And then, as the cook was undoubtedly pulling the french fries out of the fryer, we got the call that the next round was starting and our nephew would wrestle anytime.  Mounting tension.  “Can you box up our orders?”  And not put in a fork for my stuffed tomato?  Thanks!

We hustle the girls to the truck, Allan’s knees get slammed as the truck door gets caught in the wind.  We fly back to the high school.  My knees get slammed by the truck door in the wind.  When we make it back into the bleachers, the girls throw around the fries and grilled cheese we got them and our nephew wins his match. 

I’m rambling here, so I’m going to speed through the next part of the day by just saying, one year olds in the bleachers is exhausting.  Even if there are a dozen family members to pass them around.  Exhausting.  And the best remedy is to allow them to run wild in the cafeteria.  I apologize to all future gym monitors for endorsing the behavior that you are assigned to squelch.  Sorry.  Long story short, we spent most of our Cowboy Classic time running in endless circles by the concession stand.

Next part of the story:  The part in which mounting tension is nothing compared to self-esteem squashing by stupid gym moms. 

In the bleachers, the girls made nice with our neighboring spectators, one of which was a young man in an orange sweatshirt that let the girls sit in the bleacher seat he was watching for someone, even though he was clearly at the age that is unaffected by the cuteness of one year olds.  He was so nice.  Fast forward to me leaving  and returning to the bleachers 87 times, and at some point, the seat he was holding was taken by his thirty-something mom and her friend.  I slid on the bleacher behind them to loosely supervise Reese climbing on the stairs, and as I slid by, I noticed Yellow Shirt Mom gesturing with her thumb in my direction and Stupid Curly Haired Mom looked back at me.  Eye contact.  Which would have been NOTHING had she not done a very obvious glance left, glance right.  OMG, they are talking about me.  I froze and watched, knowing that gossip etiquette would not allow her to look back at me.  Yellow Shirt was saying something to which Stupid Curly Hair responded, eyes WIDE, “I know. Haha, No, No No.” 

Ugh.  I die.  The last death I had to die on the longest day of my life I just died.  Stupid, stupid bitches.  I was so weakened by mounting tension at this point, that all I could do was swallow my tears.  STUPID BITCHES.  But I’m not crying now, so I’d like to respond. “You stupid bitches.  Your son, the one whose neck you are stroking so tenderly as you tear down the stranger behind you, your son was SO NICE to my girls, for so long.  And athletic wear at an athletic an event that you are NOT participating in, at your OLD ages, is just lazy.  Especially when your stupid hair is blow-dried.  You can’t even pretend that you are on your way TO OR FROM the gym.  I hope you get big zits on your little stupid noses.  The two-week kind and you make the mistake of squeezing to early and scabs with a big red scab.  And you stub your toes.”

There.  Take that.  I feel somewhat better.  Now.  At them time though, I was shredded.  Or I thought I was.  There was one more piece of me to take down. 

That morning, on our way out of Forsyth, I stocked up on oranges and pretzels for the girls while Allan pumped gas.  And I got checked out (snap a Z).  It was validating.  I had pulled myself together, blow-drying and pinning my hair up the way youtube has taught my thirty year old ass to do.  And it paid off because Handsome Brown Eyes made eye contact by the fountain pops, then circled around the pretzel aisle for a second look, and I drank it up.  After paying, I ran out of the gas station and shared the great news with Allan.  “I got checked out!!”

Fast forward eight hours.  Handsome Brown Eyes is standing in the concession area at the Cowboy.  We make eye contact, and mounting tension has pushed my mood so far from where it was that morning, that I don’t even recognize this guy and wonder why he’s looking at me.  Then it hits me, “Ohhhh, check out guy.   Wow, he’s incredibly handsome.  And young.”  At that moment, the wound that Yellow Shirt and Stupid Curly Hair inflicted on my self-esteem oozes and I float out of my body and look down at myself.  There I am, my pants sagging out of “nice-ass” territory into “saggy britches” land.  My sweater has something crusty on the shoulder and the pocket.  My carefully pinned hair has been blown by sixty mph winds 18 times today.  My eyes are reflecting exhaustion, despondency, and mounting tension.  At that moment, I read his mind “That’s the lady from the gas station.  Hmmm, she’s old.”

I die.  Again. 

The one moment in my long day that was as validating as posting on Facebook that the house is clean evaporated.  I was defeated.  Avery and I raced around the concession stand four more times, then watch the nephew win his last match, then grabbed our squirrely girls, threw a last dirty look at Yellow Shirt and Stupid Curly Hair, and left that gym.  I cried on the way home. 

Oh, and had an incredible revolution about my obsession with food.  And since this post is already ridiculously long, I’m going to keep on going.  As we left the gym, I asked Allan if he wanted to get some (hypocrite alert) Taco Johns.  He said, “no,” and added an incredulous,  ”Why?  Are you hungry?”  I walked on knowing that I wasn’t hungry, picturing the mouthful of grease and wondering why I felt a need for food, even though I wasn’t hungry.  It hit me… I had just had an incredibly bad day and if I could just eat something tasty and satisfying, I could say “You know today sucked, but damn those tacos were good.”  It was emotional… I was looking for food to be a salve for my deflated self-esteem, my bad hair, my exhaustion, and my exasperation with my children (be thankful this blog post hasn’t even touched on how exasperated I was with the girls by this point.)  When I explained that to Allan, he was like, “Ok then, let’s stop and get something” but I felt better just verbalizing why I wanted to eat. 

Then I cried, which really was what I had been needing since the truck door slammed my knees into the truck’s step thing.

When we finally, finally reached home, the girls went directly to bed.  And I found a perfect cure for the bad day blues.  Yoga and sitcoms.  I snickered in downward dog.  I giggled through sun salutations.  I found balance in balance poses.  And I smiled through floor stretches. 

Allan went to the tournament on his own today.  The girls and I are kicking it in sweatpants and diapers today.  And I have scheduled some yoga and sitcoms for naptime.  Today, I recover.

Thank you for reading my diatribe if you have actually made it this far.

**A note on McDonalds: I do not care in the least, nor judge you in any way  if you feed your child at McDonalds.  I’m sure, being the hypocrite that I am, there will be a few happy meals in the Violett Girls’ lives.  Ugh.  Blech.  No judgement!