I woke up at 5:11 this morning. Not because I have embarked on a new mission of discipline, but because I had to pee. But as I sauntered back to bed, tripping gracefully over artfully strewn stilettos and laundry, I decided something. This was the perfect time to embark on a new mission of discipline. Perfect.
In the dark, I fumbled around for something that could pass as gym clothes. I kissed Husband and White Cat goodbye and made my way to the gym. Well, actually, I made my way to Starbucks first. With that early morning swagger that says I have my stuff together, I walked through that door. It was 5:31 and I was the very first customer. The barista still had her headphones in and I think I startled her when I appeared at the counter clutching a water bottle and banana. I ordered a Venti. And as she rang me up, I realized I didn't have my wallet. But I scrounged together $2.11 in coins to pay for the Venti. Phew.
I worked out. For over an hour. And I caught up on news and music videos. And after getting up to speed on Barack and Beyonce, I went home to see my family. We played and sipped coffee and danced and did the usual morning thing and before Husband left for work, I ordered an omelet. Because after commencing my regime of discipline, I wasn't going to eat a bowl of candy corn for breakfast. That wouldn't be right. No. Time for protein. (For those of you who are rookies here, I am crazy. And when I go on vacation or eat a bowl of soup, I usually gain a pound. Which horrifies me. And then I get all high and mighty and make the very scientific and sudden determination that carbohydrates are the devil. And then a few days later, I surrender and quit. Stay tuned for my quitting post. I estimate Friday.) Anyway, back to that ominous omelet. I debated egg whites versus whole eggs and decided to splurge on the latter since I'd burned a calorie or two. And fillings? I went for spinach, tomatoes, onions, and ham.
Oh, and hair.
Yes, the doorbell rang and the girls and I squealed with delight. I paid the nice man, pried open the little tin. I divvied the home fries up for the girls and started devouring my omelet. Yum. Halfway through, there it was. Plain as day. A medium-length, oily, buttery, very dark hair. The onset of nausea was immediate. I tried to convince myself that it was a Rowley girl hair. But, you see, Toddler and I are blondies and Baby is pretty much blonde/bald. (For a split second, I contemplated rescuing that slippery strand from its shallow pool of filthy oil and shellacking it to Baby's noggin. Maybe then people would stop calling her a boy?)
I called up the diner. And I talked to the manager. I said something along the lines of: "My delivery came. And my omelet has hair!" I waited for his response. "OH MY GOD!" he proclaimed. "I just wanted to let you know," I said, suddenly playing it cool, fetching tainted home fries from Baby fists. I hung up. Sad. Disappointed. You see, I will not name names because I don't like to ruin reputations but this diner has always been my favorite. I used to go there almost every weekend after staying out late in law school. I scarfed many midnight nachos at that establishment. And, now, I am wondering how many hairs I have unknowingly swallowed over the years too. Yummeth.
I know. I know. Spoiled rotten. Hairs happen. It's not the end of the world. I know. I know. If I were so worried about hairs, I would pry myself from the sectional and whip up my own omelet. That way, any embedded hair would be a native. And this would be decidedly less yucky. I know. Someday. Maybe.
Well, the kids were devastated about the potatoes. So, like a good mom, I called a different diner. And omelet #2 just arrived. I haven't yet conducted a thorough examination, but upon first glance, this omelet appears to be just as it should be. Bald.