Her: This isn’t a very good song. I don’t even like classical music.

* * *

My neighbor in kindergarten will be so jealous.

* * *

When I was 18 years old and a freshman in college I called one of my very best friends from high school. She wasn’t going to go to college. She was staying back home in Tampa and working. She had just moved in with her boyfriend and she told me this long story about shopping for barstools. I thought it was the most boring conversation I had ever been a party to. I could not fathom that anybody – let alone somebody who had seemed so much like me – could care so deeply about something as mind-numbing as barstools.

I wanted to talk about parties and bands and clubs and videos. I cared about who had a new boyfriend and what she was reading and listening to. I was 18 and the world was my oyster. I was invincible. I had new friends and interesting classes. I cared about new ideas and living away from my parents.  I cared about politics and culture. She cared about barstools.

I could not relate to her in any way that mattered to either of us.

* * *

I was probably 36 years old the first time I really mowed a lawn. I like it because it feels like exercise and getting something done at the same time. Plus I like mowing over toys that people leave in my yard. There is something freeing about that kind of simple destruction.

My favorite part about mowing is that I can listen to my iPod on shuffle in private. I don’t have to hear “This song sucks, Mom.” or “Really? Dokken?”

I killed my old lawn mower this morning. I don’t think I did anything particularly bad to it, its time was just up. We bought that lawn mower when we bought our first house in 2001. I never expected to get 10 years out of the second-cheapest lawnmower Sears had to offer, but that is what we got and I feel pretty good about it.

I was very excited today when Gabe brought me the clean new lawn mower. It started the first time I pulled the cord. I used to have to fight with the old one. I always chalked it up to being a lefty and kind of weak, but it turns out that I am awesome and it was the mower that sucked.

When I came in he asked me how it went. I said, “It turns like a dream.”

* * *

Today a song came on my iPod that I hadn’t really listened to since 1994. It was one of those situations where I could feel my old feeling so intensely that I looked around my yard surprised to be who and where  I am.

I’m not sure if this is what I expected my life to be like or not. I don’t think I thought I would be mowing my lawn. I certainly never foresaw writing essays about lawn mowers, but my life is good. I am actually comfortable approaching 40. I think I am where I want to be and I am moving quickly in a direction that is exciting. I don’t really care that much about parties anymore, but  I am still open to new ideas and experiences and music. And I think that almost 20 years later I am finally interested in barstools. Sort of. Well, maybe not barstools, but I like things that I would have found boring as hell back when I was in college – like SEO, or making a really good meatloaf or this.

I totally want this lawnmower next.

She said she had never worn pantyhose under a formal dress. In fact, she had never worn pantyhose ever.

Tights yes, hose never.

I am not that old. I am only thirty-eight. I not only wore pantyhose to at least twenty formal events, I also had to wear them to work every day for more than one job. Not because I wanted to, but because it was the dress code.

I’d noticed that Hollywood has been shunning pantyhose for years now, and I’ve always thought that women on the red carpet with short dresses and bare legs looked… unfinished. Like they forgot lipstick or earrings. I don’t mean to judge – I suck at accessorizing. I just cannot fathom how a person will get shit injected into their face for vanity yet draw the line at wearing something that is tight around the leg. Surgical augmentation?  Yes. Sewn into a dress? Yes. Wearing pain in lieu of clothes on the cover of a magazine? Sure. Pantyhose? Aw, hell no.

I don’t get it.

And it makes me feel old.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to wear pantyhose. I work from home. I don’t even usually wear shoes. But if I were going to have hundreds of paparazzo taking my picture for tens of thousands of websites, magazines and television, and I spent $60,000 on a dress, I would not want people seeing all of my bruises and mosquito bites.

That makes me sound super sexy.

I don’t think I’m old fashioned. I don’t think I’m as crotchety as this post makes me sound, although I also hate dress shorts and orange eye shadow. Maybe I am finally getting old. Maybe I’m pissy because the kids are watching “Good Luck Charlie” for the fifteenth time today, or maybe I am just tired of seeing Sarah Jessica Parker’s foot veins.

See? Foot veins. Weird.

I am tempted to ask you if you feel strongly about this too, but I don’t think I want to know.

What kind of name is Chs? I thought? Was Chris typing really fast?

Then I said his last name out loud.

“Ninety One.”

Like Nineteen Ninety-One.

The year I graduated from high school.

Oh. Not Chs. C.H.S.

Holy crap. They must be preparing for my twenty year reunion.

How the hell have almost twenty years passed since I graduated from high school? I’m still young-ish. I still get I.D.ed occasionally. Twenty year reunion. That just seems surreal.

I suppose I am okay with it. I have done a lot in the last nineteen years, but somehow this snuck up on me. I guess I just thought I would be much older than this when my 20th reunion rolled around.

Actual Father Not Shown

I said “Are you making liberty spikes?”

He said “What is a liberty spike?”

I explained to him what a liberty spikes were and what a mohawk was.

“You know your Dad used to have a mohawk. A purple one.”

“No he didn’t. He had a purple head?”

“No, honey, just his hair was purple. His head was regular color. He used to have a nose ring too.” I said. ” A Bull Ring, like this” and I demonstrated what a bull ring looks like.

And my five year old son said “That is so old fashioned.”

Welcome to 2010 people. We are old now.

I signed up for Tae Kwon Do.

Well, I was tricked into signing up for Tae Kwon Do.

Let me back up a little bit.

My five year old son has been dying to take Tae Kwon Do ever since he found out that his best friend at preschool was taking it. I finally got around to signing him up for it a couple of weeks ago.

There was a special where you got your first four lessons and a do-bok (that is how you say little white outfit in Korean) for $79. It isn’t cheap, but he was all about it and my husband and I both thought he would get a lot out of it especially in the area of body control.

You know how little boys are always running in to things.

After two lessons (which he adored) his twin sister decided that she might like it too. So I signed her up.

Last Tuesday I took them in for his fourth lesson and her second lesson. Before the class even started I was whisked in to the office where the Master sat – not one of the underling masters but The Master, the main man, the guy that owns the joint.

It was time for the hard sell.

I don’t have the exact figures but signing the two of them up for a year came to somewhere around one million dollars.

Okay, it was significantly less than one million but also significantly more than I had in my bank account. In fact, thinking about it makes me want to vomit, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Both children love it, it is marvelous exercise and a lot of their friends from school are in there.

Then The Master says to me “What about you?”

I am thinking: There is no fucking way. There are like four other adults here in the kids classes and they all look like gigantic tool bags. The last thing I need to do is spend another $800 to look like an asshole.

My subconscious has a filthy mouth.

I am saying “No. I really can’t afford it.”

Then The Master drops the bomb. “I will give you one year for free if you take the class with the children. It helps them learn at home and stay involved.”

Oh Shit. I think. How can I turn down a year of free Tae Kwon Do? This would actually give me something to write about on Loser Moms.

The Master said that he would give me the free year, but I actually had to show up. If I didn’t actually take the classes he was going to charge me.

So I said yes.

But I was scared.

Really. I didn’t want to do it. My kids were through the roof excited, but I was very apprehensive.

I didn’t want to look like an idiot.

What if I sucked at it?

What if it was hard?

What if all of the five year olds were better than me?

But I had committed to this.

So yesterday I had my first lesson. It was awkward. I had no idea what the lady was saying. Some other parents I knew were there watching their children. But when we broke up in to groups I knew everybody in my group. It was me, Ian (5), Claudia (5), Paige (5) and Emma (6).

I think I probably did look like a tool, but it was kind of fun.

And I wasn’t too bad at it.

And Emma’s mom was really nice about it. She gave me a thumbs up and everything.

So yeah.

My name is Sarah and I am a white belt in Tae Kwon Do.

***

Cross-Posted on Loser Moms

I wasn’t just making it up either. We were making her a Pandora playlist. She wanted to thumbs up Children of Bodom and Amon Amarth.

When I told Gabe this story he said that those bands weren’t grindcore, maybe death core or black metal, but not grindcore.

At this point in the story I need to back up a few weeks. Gabe and I were having an argument about which one of us was more metal.

In our defense we had just been to three wine tastings, so it wasn’t like we just talk about this all of the time. Well, okay, maybe we do, but in this particular case we had been in Napa all day drinking wine.

We called the children and had a family vote. The vote was ‘Who in this family is the most metal?”

Gabe voted for Gabe.

Ian voted for Ian.

I voted for myself.

Claudia voted for Ian, Claudia and Daddy.

This vote would make Gabe and Ian tied for the most metal and me and the girl who has both Barbies and Polly Pockets on her Christmas list tied for least metal.

I skipped my Sophomore homecoming dance to go to a Sepultura show. I sang on an Iced Earth album. I’ve been to Morbid Angel’s house. I grew up in Tampa! How could I possibly be the least metal person in any family?

But as I found myself reading the wiki for grindcore I kind of wanted to cry because a truly metal person wouldn’t need to google a wiki (which would be a fantastic name for a disco band) to distinguish between grindcore and deathcore. Would they?

And there is nothing metal about crying.

First was my new stylist. She asked me if I was in school.

I looked at her like she had ten heads and I am pretty sure I said :No, I am a grown-up, but thank you for saying that.”

Then today the guy that was trying to sell me a new garbage service wanted to talk to my Mom. (Which he totally could have done if he was here last week, but I am still in charge of the major garbage decisions at my house. She can’t stop me even when she is visiting.)

I was feeling pretty youthful.

I was trying to figure out what is working in my favor this week? Did I lose weight? Is it my new haircut? Is it not wearing any makeup? Is it wearing dirty jeans and a ratty old sweatshirt from college?

Suddenly I understood.

I don’t look younger.

I am wearing a college sweatshirt.

See?

I’ve been wearing it for two days.

And shut up, like YOU change clothes every day!

Oh, you do?

Well goody for you.

And I don’t look any younger. People are just literate and when they read “University of Central Florida” they think I am in college.

The key to maybe not looking young, but at least getting asked if you are young is to wear a sweatshirt with a college on it.

Note: I also have a sweatshirt that bears the name and logo of the preschool the kids went to on it. No one ever asks me about that one. Apparently I cannot pass for four, but possibly 22. I am okay with that.

I was on a field trip today with The Goon Squad. We were at the zoo and we were looking at the big cats when I walked by a teenager who was wearing the tour t-shirt of a death metal band that I hung out with back in high school.

Suddenly I was hyper aware of who I was. I was a 36 year old suburban lady standing at The National Zoo with my nearly five year old twins chaperoning a preschool field trip.

How the hell did that happen?

It was like my 17 year old self* was standing there looking at me as I am now.

She was surprised.

It isn’t that I don’t have pretty much everything I ever wanted. I do. I am happy about where I am in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not done yet, I have a lot yet to accomplish, but I feel like my life is on the right track.

I just can’t believe it all happened so fast.

Sometimes I feel like I was teenager 15 minutes ago.

*Shut up. You had the claw too.

Here is the thing that freaks me out. My friends that I met in college, I have now known them for half of my life.

Children that were born when I was a senior in high school are now seniors in high school.

Process that.