I’ve been on a slight downward spiral in terms of Feeling Crapulent the last few days. Weeks. Whatevers.
And despite Monkey Boy’s barely veiled attempts to guilt me into accompanying him to his parkour sessions, I chose to go with movies over him. Because I can.
Of course, my downward sprial, increasing levels of stress and tiredness and just feeling blah have my sensitivities to Feeling Guilty increased dramatically, and I spend 20 minutes of the 23 minute walk to school asking for reassurance from Grumpy Pants that it was ok that I have a night off (“Plesae, shut the fuck up and go, will you, it’s fine!”) and that he has all the necessary deatils for tonight’s parkour session. As it’s new. And in a different place. And there’s an email. Wait, I’ll print it out for you. And the map. Will you be ok?
After school, Monkey Boy went into his I’m Not Sure What To Expect So I Don’t Think I Want To Go Now mode. With added I’m A Bit Anxious So Will Be A Complete Arse Face To My Brother.
I had to divide my time between being elated and relieved about having a night off, guilty that I was having a night off, placating and reassuring Monkey Boy, and being fed up with his arse faceness and obnoxious.
The placation / disciplinary is a fine line to walk at the best of times.
I did it by snaffling the chips the kids didn’t know we had and putting them in my bag for the movies. I farewelled the family, who were all now required to trek into the City for some parkour action, and head off on my date.
The waves of stress fluttered out the window, but the guilt clung on for dear life. Basically, I rang Grumpy about four times on the way to my friend’s house to ensure they reached their destination on time, and that everything was ok.
Because, despite my knowing Grumpy is exceptionally capable of doing such things, and is generally pretty switched on, my state of mind had convinced me that only I may control such activities and I had to know everything that was going on! Damnit!
No answer, each time. No answer when we got to the movies either.
So I switched my phone off, and settled back to watch Magic Mike.
Which, despite the excessive exposure of hot, male bodies, was mildly disappointing, and, I’m sad to say, I was not terribly excited by what essentially proved to be one very long strip show.
I put this down to the fact that I reguarly have various sized penises waved about in front of my eyes, have been forced to endure a fair amount of bum-looking-at over the last week (or eleven-and-a-half years, if I’m honesst) and the mostly-naked male figure is sadly losing it’s appeal. Even those figures so appealing as these ones.
I also lost an eye or two, what with the sickly thin female actors and their exceedingly pointy hips and elbows poking about on the screen. All I could contemplate during their also almost-naked poncing about the screen was, despite their lack of any body fat and/or muscle to sit between their bones and skin, was just how appalling their postures were.
I think I’ve turned into a mother.
The post-movie hot chocolate was the highlight, the chip crumbs in my bra was not.
I rang the mobile and home number again, and still no answer. But I did have a fabulous night out, with some fabulous company and some much needed venting, ranting and retell therapy.
Oh, and Grumpy Pants and the kids survived, found the place, on time, no problems, Monkey Boy had fun and definitely wants to go back next week, and the had a boys night out.