Yesterday, I turned 25 32.
I’m still not a fan of being in my thirties. . . especially since the second I turned thirty, my skin changed — entering the beginning stages of crepe-papery thinness and a mass of wrinkles and fine lines.
NOT a fan.
But yesterday’s annual mourning celebration of getting older was one of the best I’ve had — except for that one brief moment where early-onset dementia set in and I practically cursed in front of my pastor.
Yes, I said “cursed in front of my pastor.”
I didn’t mean to do it. It’s not like I was in a bad mood or had just sat through a mind-numbing sermon and I was taking it out on the poor guy.
It had been a good day: the Little Lady had given me a cute birthday card (depicting her favorite cartoon dog, Snoopy), Mr. Boy had slept the ENTIRE NIGHT (only the 8th time that’s happened since his birth), and Hubby had given me a gift certificate to the store over which I’ve been coveting for over a year.
(The Vintage Pearl, if you’re wondering)
There was NO reason for the word that came out of my mouth later that morning, as we talked with the Pastor on our way out of the church.
But out it came.
The man, interested in blogging, social media, and similar ilk, simply asked about my blog and my content.
“Oh, I pretty much just write about motherhood and the craptastic days I have with my kids.”
What in the WORLD? I was in church . . . our NEW church, incidentally . . . talking to our pastor.
I grew up a “Preacher’s Kid” and I know how to behave. That word should NOT have left my lips, but it did.
I can only claim getting old as a possible excuse for this breach of decorum.
Or, my craptastic days with the kids are messing with my brain.
Oh, crap. I said it again.
Oh, shoot. . .
(ugh, sigh . . . who wants to wash my mouth out with soap?)