every rose has its thorn
I woke up yesterday after dreaming that James moved me to Indiana. He told me we were moving to Nantucket, and I was thrilled for a life on the beach, but then I realized he was talking about Nantucket, Indiana. Obviously. Which doesn't even exist. I heard Gracie babbling in her crib and opened my eyes to look for James to ask him to grab her, but I was still so furious with him for deceiving me that I ended up saying some not-so-friendly things as the line between reality and dreamland was still quite blurred.
I came downstairs and poured steaming hot coffee all over myself, twice. We got a surprise bill that upset me more than Nantucket, Indiana. My favorite local channel stopped showing The Andy Griffith Show in the morning. I felt my mood slipping to the depths of despair, Anne Shirley style.
It was so humid outside you could actually see the moisture in the hazy air quality, and by 10am you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. But we rallied, and I decided to take us to the Columbus Park of Roses and walk around. Get out of the house, pretty flowers, exercise, win-win-win. I parked the car a little further up the walking trail from the park thinking we'll just get in a little extra walking! Great idea, self. We got started on the trail, it was gorgeous, and I started to think the curse of the terrible day was broken. After awhile, we got to a sign that said "Rose Garden 1/2 mile." Eff. Half a mile isn't far, but it feels more like a mile when you're pushing a stroller, and more like 2 miles when the atmosphere feels like satan's oven.
We got to the garden and walked around, and my throat immediately felt like it was swelling closed. I have never had allergies until the last few years. Every year, the sniffles start to get a little worse. I apparently inherited my mother's rose allergy, because I felt like I was breathing fire and there were needles in my eyes. Gracie started to get hungry, so I hid in a little gazebo and nursed her while swatting bugs off us and praying the guy with the dogs stays far away. Given the setting, I felt a little like I was in the middle of a Jane Austen novel, and I didn't hate it. Something tells me the boob sweat is a little less severe in the english countryside, though.
We kept walking until Gracie had a meltdown for reasons unknown. Being pushed around all of christendom in the stroller while people-watching is her favorite thing in the world, so her cries and screams made no sense. She didn't want to calm down (maybe she saw the grasshopper the size of my face that landed on the stroller, in which case her meltdown would make sense), so I decided it was time to leave since people were staring which was only amping up the boob sweat situation. Except, majorly long walk back to the car. And somehow I hadn't noticed that on the way there, we had been walking mostly downhill. So a long uphill climb with the stroller and fussy baby (who was finally regaining her composure) in heat and humidity that could make your skin melt off while trying to keep my throat from swelling shut. We finally got back to the car, and I was getting everything put away when I looked down at my red arms and realized I had forgotten sunscreen. An entire summer cooped up and I had forgotten how to survive the great outdoors.
We hunkered down at home the rest of the day and all was mostly well, although it took me about 5 hours to stop sweating, until I was putting laundry away and discovered I had accidentally put my favorite tank top in the dryer. Let's just say it can now be sold at F21 as it's now a crop top.
You can now feel free to add me to the ranks of women currently foaming at the mouth for sweaters and cooler temperatures.