Comedy of Errors

I happened to notice that one of the medications that the doctor prescribed me last week had a sun exposure warning listed on the bottle.   Since it’s not July and I had no immediate plans to lie on the beach soaking up rays of vitamin D and drinking strawberry lemonade, I never gave the warning a second thought.  It wasn’t until the evening after my 20,000 step day that FringeMan looked at me startled and said “You’re glowing!”

I am now sporting a fresh tan two months late.

Did I mention that I am on my third pedometer?  Yes, I’m about to be blacklisted for purchasing pedometers and returning them.  I realized that the first pedometer I bought (some things are on clearance for a reason) was giving me extra steps.  The mechanism was just too sensitive to movement and since I’m working against the evil fat spirits, I need accuracy.  I bought my second pedometer at a local sporting goods store after much deliberation.  Ultimately I chose based on looks.  Never wise!  It only calculated distance and not steps.  Who would have thunk it?

Although embarrassed to do so, I exchanged the distance pedometer for one that counts only steps.  It appears to be much more accurate, but has been reset several times due to my son hugging me and accidentally hitting the reset button.  I’ve resigned myself to the fact I may never know how many steps I actually walk.  All I know is that my sneakers are wearing out.

By Friday I had learned my sun lesson, used sunscreen, and waited under a tree for my kids to come bounding down the school steps for the weekend.  FringeKid is the first one out since they stagger the time each grade is released.  As she tackled me in her usual afternoon bear hug, I asked the question I’m sure she dreaded all day.

“How’d you do on your spelling test?”

Poor spelling is a genetic deficiency running directly through my blood line and every night I promise everything short of a trip to Disney if FringeKid will just remember how to spell her ten words.  With a squeeze and kiss to her sweaty head, I assured her that I’d love her no matter how she did on her test.

Before the warmth of my breath left her hair, she hopefully questioned, “Even if I fail the second grade?”

Suddenly my affirmation of unconditional motherly love had turned into permission to sack her entire academic career starting in the second grade.  Wondering where I went wrong and afraid to speak another word, I merely pointed to the swings and she took off at a run.

This same child sat on the edge of my bed swinging her legs and watching me lace up my sneakers Saturday morning.  The FringeBoys were off doing Boy Scouting things and we were about to return a few books to library, play in the park, and ultimately walk to the bakery.  I had just clipped on my pedometer when she asked, “Why aren’t you losing any weight?”

“Have you heard of the evil fat spirits?” I asked, but she ignored me.

With all the seriousness a seven year-old could possibly muster, she suggested “Maybe you should have really worked on losing all that fat when you were much younger.”

In that moment, I knew why some animals eat their young.  It has nothing to do with hunger.

Some days I just feel like my life is a comedy of errors.  And because you are wondering, I ate a raspberry turnover.  It was worth every last step that I will need to walk to burn it off.