You won't believe this, but just the other night I was congratulating myself--in front of and for the benefit of my husband--on how we, as a family, are embracing the New Austerity. You know, the "Gasoline is going to hit $5.00 a gallon! Where are my scissors! I need to clip some coupons!"
And then I started to figure out what I've been spending at the garden store. Today I brought home 12 herb plants, three rose bushes, three gardening books, and a lemon tree.
Because I live in Illinois and a lemon tree is a hearty robust plant that I could not possibly kill.
But in my defense, I went to the gym today. And I met with a personal trainer. A session which I paid for in advance. LAST DECEMBER.
I don't know whether my trainer thought I needed to be punished for paying for 33 personal trainer sessions and not showing up for six months.
But she will be referred to hereafter as Denise the Rolfing Rectrix. Or maybe the Maharani of Massage. Or maybe I should just break down and call her That Chick Who Ripped My Calf Muscles Off While I Did Lamaze Breathing To Cope with the Pain.
But seriously, people. At one point she had me leaning against the trainers desk in full view of the people working out. She had one leg straight down, then bent my other leg and shoved my knee up to my ear. And then pressed the full weight of her body against the top leg. And held it. While I screamed. And then took me into a studio and dug her fingers into my calves and pretty much ripped the meat off the drumstick.
As I screamed in agony, only one thought comforted me: "At least it's paid for."