Spinning Tops and Boob Shirts

Have you seen those toddlers who just won’t seem to settle down? They’re like spinning tops. They’re tired, but they won’t sleep. They’re all hopped up on sugar or life and just go and go and go until they pass out wherever they happen to be standing when their energy finally runs out.

That’s me.

I was zipping along at breakneck speed at work today. I’d been there for six hours and despite almost constant motion, I had yet to get anything done. So, it’s now one o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve already made one intern cry, and I’m looking at the man from the telephone company who’s come to install two new fax lines that corporate ordered without bothering to ask me if we needed them.

“Where do you want me to put these?” he’s asking.

I look up at him, the million other things I need to deal with are running through my mind, and I’m stifling the urge to scream at him. I finally give up and just tell him that I have no idea. We don’t need the lines. I didn’t ask for the lines. I don’t want the lines. He can put them wherever he wants. He is the expert, right?

“Hey,” he says to me, completely calm amidst my chaos and in the face of my obvious irritation with having yet another task stacked on my overflowing plate. “Relax.”

And his voice is so soothing, and I’m so completely stunned, that I do.

 

So, I took Boy shopping tonight for jeans. On the spur of the moment he’d asked to go up to Vermont with my mom, and I’d realized he only has one pair of jeans, twenty million t-shirts, and a pair of flip-flops. They’re leaving tomorrow. I really am the WORST mother in the world. It’s a miracle he’s made it to eighteen without more emotional damage, or at the very least, a rap sheet.

We tromped through Nordstrom’s, where I drooled over a pair of Via Spiga booties with three inch heels, and walked straight past their yummy coffee bar to get to American Eagle which is apparently the only acceptable place to buy Boy jeans this month. While he tried on jeans, a friend of his from school who works there advised me that gray t-shirt and jeans I was wearing were far too big for me and pushed me toward the dressing room.

“No, no,” she told me as I grabbed helplessly at a medium sized t-shirt that looked a lot like the one I was already wearing dangling on the return rack, “Small. Extra small, maybe. Not medium. Lady, have you seen you?”

Then came an array of teeny tiny tops and teeny tiny torn jeans to try on.

I put on a teeny tiny tank top that tied at the waist, took one look at myself in the mirror and turned to her to try one last time to reason with her, “This shirt makes my boobs look huge, Destiny.”

“Yeah?” she said and fixed me with one of those looks.

I just kept quiet after that.

And wondered to myself what kind of commission Destiny was pulling in.

P.S. I now own three boob shirts.

And Boy has two new pairs of jeans.

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