Leg Day was four days ago.
Four fucking days ago.
And I’m still sidestepping down stairs like my fucking grandmother. God rest her soul.
I tried that bungee jumpy cardio thing yesterday morning.
Thinking it might help loosen my muscles up.
And also Rogue and Fall Risk made me.
But as I slowly lowered myself into the bouncy seat, and immediately hit the floor, I knew. This was gonna be more painful than effective.
But also fully entertaining.
Because Rogue is entirely incapable of holding her shit together for 45 solid minutes.
And really. Couldn’t y’all have predicted that we would be so out of control that at least one of us would go careening into a wall?
The giggling was impossible to stifle.
Tried some yoga. And foam rolling. Last night.
And still. Every time I roll over in the middle of the night, I wake up to pain shooting down my thighs.
I’m preparing to take a hot bath.
Like in the movies.
Relaxing music. A good book. A cup of coffee.
Well, it’s only half a cup. Of the coffee that was leftover from this morning.
But I reheated it and threw some cinnamon whiskey in…
It’s not quite the same as the movies.
The bath water isn’t even deep enough to cover my legs.
Because the hot water runs out too quickly.
I’ll assume that has something to do with a substandard water heater tank size.
And the hot water on my legs was the main inspiration for the bath.
Freakin J-Vicious and Skratch, man.
There are no bubbles in the bath.
Bubbles are not something I have ever kept in my home.
Because I’ve never had sole access to a bathtub.
I’ve never lived alone.
And the only bathtub in my home is in the boys’ bathroom.
Well, my bathroom, now.
They’re all my rooms now.
I don’t have to share them with anyone anymore.
Maybe ever again.
Ok. Some of you know. I was really excited about my youngest son moving out.
Like, way more excited than was probably entirely appropriate. For a single mother.
I love my kids.
I love, love, love my kids.
My level of excitement may have implied that I don’t.
But I so very much do.
I mean, look at those faces. I made those.
They were the center of my entire world for 20 years.
And I adore them.
But the idea of having an entire house. Completely to myself.
Can you imagine the freedom???
To wear what I want. Or don’t want. With no concern for another human catching me?Wearing what I want? Or don’t want?
To watch whatever dumb shit I wanna watch on tv without another human walking in and judging me.
Y’all. I can buy whatever food I want to. And no one else is gonna eat it before I get home from work.
I don’t have to share.
I don’t have to clean.
I could start hoarding.
Not, like, cat corpses and shit.
I can start hoarding books.
I can turn every fucking room I own into a damn library if I want.
I mean, my home is basically already a random and unorganized warehouse for 80% of the world’s books.
But I could shove bookshelves into every crevice of every room throughout my home. If I want to.
Because my boy moved out.
My baby boy. Moved out.
I had another one. Another baby boy.
But when he moved out, like five years ago, it was easy. Because I still had this younger one. A spare. A back up child. Still needing my mothering. Every now and then.
So I was too distracted by lingering parenting responsibilities to be sad.
But now he’s gone. This is it. There are no extras left in the basement.
I don’t think.
I haven’t checked.
I probably should. Make sure there isn’t some random kid that I didn’t make just chillin in my basement.
But officially, all children have moved out of my home.
He packed up the last of his things. Hugged me goodbye. And then drove away to start his new life.
And I cried.
I didn’t expect to cry.
He only moved an hour up the road. Less than an hour.
And we’re pretty tight. My kids and I.
So I expect to still see him fairly often.
But something about the finality of seeing him drive away hit home a little harder than expected.
And the tears just came without warning.
To be fair, I also cried over someone else’s child. Experiencing his own stuff. Last night. And I may have cried a bit upon taking my first steps downstairs this morning. But I’m pretty invested in the kid. And tears have become a pretty standard response to walking down stairs now.
But also. My little baby boy.
I have officially entered the next phase of my life. The first two phases kind of blended from one into the other. Teenage pregnancy has that effect.
So I didn’t really notice the transition.
But this one. This phase.
I’m an empty nester.
I no longer have humans to care for.
I am now responsible only for myself.
It’s sad. And also really, really liberating.
And so I’m sitting here not entirely sure what to do with myself.
And I’m realizing that it’s probably all of the sitting I’ve done since leg day that’s causing the effects to linger so long.
So I should probably run or something.
Which I could.
In the middle of the dark.
If I want.
Because I’m super grown now.
And totally, completely, freely alone.
Or I could just keep sitting here. In this rapidly cooling bathtub. Fantasizing about what I’m gonna do with all of this space. When I’m finally able to move without pain again.