Most of the time, my teens stay in their rooms, only surfacing to graze in the kitchen, ask for my credit card to buy something on x-box, or to ask me another word for whatever word is needed in an essay (possess, student, display, you name it. I’m like a walking thesaurus, only I’m really an accountant, so I totally suck in the word department).
Dare I pull out my aerobic step to get in a short twenty-minute workout and teens instantly appear. It’s like ringing a dinner bell. They come running to feast on wisecracks at poor old, sweaty, out-of-breath mom’s expense.
MonoBoy: “Mom, it sounded like you were beating someone out here.”
LoverBoy: “Well, that board she’s using sure is taking a beating.”
(Yes, he’s romantic and sweet like his father. [eye roll])
Then there is MonoBoy’s “whooooop” sound every time I step up and extend my arms and one leg “like Superman.”
“It’s a bird, it’s a plane, its Aerobic Mom!”
Bloodsuckers, that’s what they are. Lurking in their dark rooms and coming out to drain the dignity out of me.
I’d smack them if I had the energy to swing, but alas, all of those Superman moves makes my arms hurt too much to swing at anything.