Have just arrived home after three full and very long days at a seminar/conferency thingy, full of the awesomest of busines people.
And where my brain is required to think of sensibly outrageous things that don’t require mashing WeetBix or scraping it from the walls afterwards. I’m required to speak coherently to other business owners, and am allowed to say “fuck” without anyone under three repeating it.
The best bit was being able to speak to other adults and mingle with some top notch business owners, whom others in business may or may not be impressed about, and those not in business will have no idea who I’m talking about.
Actually, the best bit was being allowed – nah, encouraged –to be myself, who I am and not worry about conforming to political correctness and doing everythign “right”. Ahem, as I so clearly do all the time. Thus the “Business Dinner” on Saturday night, sans responsibilties of smallish people, allowed me to partake in some dancing when the band came on.
I do love a good dance. Stress relief and sometimes the only excercise I can get all week.
The theme was “Rock Star” which I managed to whip up the night before, thanks to my gorgeous friend Emma (the Mummyseuss) who created a vagina-flashing tutu for me and some stuff I located at the back of my wardrobe. Had some terrible moments where I had flashbacks to the 80’s and my teenage-hood, but overcame them with a glass of sauv-blanc and some dancing on a table ….
And just the one table. I promise.
Today, however, seemed to drag on, with my aging, mother-of-three body slowly slipping into fatigue. And hurting.
I arrive home, after sending a text message to the beloved awaiting me: Save me some dinner. And hot bubble bath. Love you xoxox
Alas, I arrive home to cold dinner, stashed in microwave so children couldn’t see, therefore, eat it, and no bath of any description, hot, cold or otherwise.