Tonight all the stars aligned and I picked up Tank when he finished at the legit landscaping gig without issue. Next we headed to the golf course -which is very near the legit business- to grab Eddie from the caddy shack. He had just finished his loop. Lad had a car parked there, but he was still on the course. I'm telling you, I run my own caddy Uber service. Our family always has a vehicle in the vicinity.
Both of these pick ups happened moments after I rushed from a building after having completed my least-favorite task of the year . . . (drum roll) my bikini wax.
I will not go into details - you're welcome- except to say that I totally appreciate the scene in the movie '40 Year Old Virgin' when Michael Scott's character gets his chest hair waxed. I decided about 3 years ago that I could handle this 'thing' (after having tried it once a decade ago and bailing on the project indefinitely), because this 10 minutes of EXTREME discomfort makes the summer bathing suit season less bothersome. Please do not be confused, I am not sporting a string bikini or anything that would defy my age. Promise.
As I leave the building (or bolt for my car trying to put the entire experience behind me as quickly as possible), the receptionist always tries to set up my 'next' appointment. 'Not till next summer,' I assure her. 'Will be in touch then.' I need 365 days to recover.
On the way home, Ed told Tank and I about his loop. As luck would have it, his golfer is currently in physical therapy for his hip and already feels better thru his knees, blah, blah. Pardon the shop talk - it comes with the territory of being the wife of a PT.
Ed to his golfer who has just revealed he is a physical therapist patient: 'Oh, where are you going for PT?'
Loop: 'Insert name of Coach's clinic.'
Ed: 'Oh, my Dad works there.'
Loop: 'No way! What's his name?'
Ed: 'Coach Shenanigan.'
Loop: 'Oh my gosh! Coach is not my physical therapist but I have gotten on his schedule a few times. He is soooo funny.'
As we drove along, Tank and Ed sat in silence for a moment mulling this one over.
Ed: 'I wanted to say to him "Oh, OK - I have never heard anyone refer to my Dad as being funny, but OK, sure.'
Me: 'Did you say "Oh, you should meet my Mom - she's the really funny one.'
Then I almost lost control of the great white in rush hour traffic, because of the look that Tank (aka the next Christ Farley) gave me that made me laugh till I couldn't see straight. I am sorry I did not jeopardize our safety and take out my phone to snap a photo of Tank's 'seriously - you, funny?' expression.
Both of my sons assured me that I AM NOT FUNNY.
Then Ed read us a tweet from his phone: 'If you find a girl who makes you laugh, keep her. Girls are not funny.'
By the time we were home, they were still challenging each other to come up with one funny girl that they knew at school, or somewhere. They couldn't.
I almost reminded them of the obvious choice: ME, but we had just been down this path and involving other offspring in a discussion about my lack of funny thru dinner would only result in said offspring making fun of me until I laughed my butt off and inadvertently choked on my food.
Step one to being funny, being able to laugh at yourself. Am I right?
What's not funny: tomorrow I will be 364 days closer to my next bikini wax. Ouch.