Today especially. I didn't love today.
Church, for instance. Today I was seriously so . . . well, let's just say I almost yawned myself silly. I wanted to wrestle with my boredom demons, but I couldn't wake my brain up.
Then after church, I didn't love the whole close proximity to my entire litter of offspring trying to keep the sabbath day holy thing. It's dangerously oxymoronic. Or at least dangerously oxymormonic.
Keep in mind it'ss been exactly 28 days since my last comma. (wink wink)
Thankfully I was able to punish my offspring in cruel and unusual ways without breaking any commandments. I started by making them sing the scriptures, which quickly escalated into them standing in the corner while singing the scriptures, which quickly escalated into me performing some wax on/wax off moves on them while they sang the scriptures.
Why can't we keep Mondays holy? Mondays would be so much easier to keep holy.
Today my husband and I decided to run away. Or at least briskly walk away (we would never run on the Sabbath.) We briskly walked the path from Sunset beach to Sharks Cove.
We slowed down and then came to a complete stop at Pipeline because my husband needed to make a pit stop so I found myself a nice bench in the shade to sit and wait.
Imagine me, sitting and waiting like a frump on a log, among the gently swaying ti leaves and palm trees, looking pensively into the deep blue eyes of the ocean.
Now imagine the ocean getting all rico suave on me and trying to seduce me by sending it's waves to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
It's a good thing I left my accent and my flawless bronze legs in my pre-mortal life or no doubt I would have succumbed to temptation and had a passionate affair with the Pacific Ocean right then and there.
TIP: If you're planning a trip to Hawaii, don't forget to pack your accent and flawless bronze legs--they will match your thong bikini nicely, trust me, especially if you bring your Brazilian accent.
So the balmy breeze is running it's fingers through my . . . baseball cap, and the exotic accents are wafting in and out of my ears and all the flawless bronze legs are poking me right in the eye and I suddenly feel like the d word.
NO, not dumb! The d word that starts with d and ends with pressed.
Whenever I'm the d word I begin meditating and pondering and reflecting upon my inner wounded child, and also upon my outer flawed, un-bronzed adult.
Is that too much information? Because there's more.
There's my epiphany.
I could tell you about my sudden startling realization as I was sitting frumpity frump style on a stone bench at Pipeline beach.
Do you want to hear it?
I might need therapy because I only fall in love with famous unavailable men named Jack--Jackie Robinson, Jack Black, Jack Johnson, Jack Bauer, Jack Shepherd . . . I'm also in love John Adams and John Mayer, but everyone knows John is a synonym for Jack, which is either a complete coincidence or it's a message from the universe.
Would my husband need therapy if asked him to change his name to Jack?
Or would that be like him asking me to change my accent to Brazilian to better match my thong bikini?