I was at the gym today after an agonizingly slow and condescending wedding meeting, (“What?! You mean you haven’t thought about floral arrangements for the alter?! Guffaw!”) totally ready to take an hour, just one hour, to myself in Lawrenceburg’s new, tiny gym.
After a bit of confusion with the staff member (I must have told her we were from out of town and didn’t need a full membership at least five times before she let us pay for drop-in rate) I finally went to town on the treadmill, free weights, and finally stretched out on a mat. A woman came up to me and started talking to me; wedding talk came out of my mouth unconsciously.
“Oh, my wedding was nothing to write home about,” she told me. Envy started in.
She didn’t look old enough to have four kids (two in college!) but she told me that she did. Also that she was married after they’d had all four, and that she didn’t remember not being a mother. Her advice was to enjoy this while I could.
Suddenly, she looked like an angel to me. Point taken: I’ll try to stop worrying so darn much.