It was light out when I woke up today, which just means I was able to sleep in a little. I must’ve gotten up about 6:45. I didn’t mean to sleep so late. I should probably have an alarm set for 6:00 Saturday. Or even 5:30.
Aislyn now has a clock in her room that beeps at 6:00. We tell her that’s when she can come out of her room. Unless she has to go to the bathroom, obviously.
We also just started a later bedtime with her, hoping she’ll sleep a bit longer in the morning so I can get to work on time. She was overdue for a bedtime change, anyway. The earlier bedtime was just more convenient for us, to be honest. But she was waking up way early.
If I don’t accrue any points over a certain time period, I get extra paid time off hours. There’s also a 4% perfect attendance bonus. I’ve always had good attendance; not perfect, but quite good.
So, here’s what I do right now at work: I adhere sponges to weather stripping. That’s what I do. I do it all day. It doesn’t bother me, though, that it’s the same thing.
At first I was a disaster. My sponges were all in the wrong location. I had to redo some of them. I’ve gotten much better.
I’m still pretty slow, I guess. But I think I’m getting faster, now I’ve got a system down. I mean, I’ve only been doing it a few days. I can do a box of 50 in about 20 minutes. The lady I worked with yesterday can do them in like 10. But she’s been working there for 37 years.
Rome wasn’t built in a day.
I got my replacement glasses yesterday. I love the ones I had, those big, clunky retro tortoise shell frames. But they were mediums, too big, kept falling down my nose and sometimes right off my face, regardless of adjustment.
So I asked for them in a small, but they don’t make those frames in a small, so I found some very similar ones. But I don’t think I like them quite as much, even though they’re really quite like the mediums, and although I’m wearing them, I don’t want to give back the originals! Is that crazy?
Maybe they can charge me for the originals and I can use them as a backup pair, or maybe I can have them put transition lenses in those ones? I know they don’t fit me correctly, but I’ve never gotten so many compliments on my frames in my life.
Even the smalls slide down my nose. I never in a million years thought of myself as having a small face. Derek suggested one of those bands you wear behind your head. Maybe? I might be worried about headaches, then. Worth a try, though.
I think I had one of those bands in my Blaban days, because I had a kiddo who liked to whip your glasses off your face. He was quite good at it, too, lightening fast, if memory serves. He had a whole bag of tricks like that. Super cute, though. Tiny. Let’s call him Julian.
People mistakenly treated Julian like a baby, because of his looks, Mom especially. But he was not a baby. He was a wily, agile little rapscallion, with Mummy (and even some of my staff) wrapped around his teeny finger.
It was a struggle, trying to keep Mom from babying him, I remember. She carried him around everywhere, when he badly needed practice walking.
She even referred to him as a baby. “He’s a good baby,” she’d say.
“He’s not a baby,” I’d say. “He’s a preschooler.”
She used to hang around as long as an hour after drop off as if it was the infant toddler program, talking to me or my staff. I used to have to get my boss to tactfully get her out the door because she did not take hints or seem to understand exit cues. My gentle subtlety didn’t work on her. In deed, it doesn’t work on a lot of people.
I mean, I got it, I understood. She was a single mom, young and very naive, and probably didn’t ever get to talk much with other adults (she had other kids, and Julian was extremely involved with behaviors and safety and medical issues). Except for us and whatever in-home support she may have had, and her mother, I think she was pretty much on her own. So I did feel sorry for her to a certain extent.
I kinda stopped feeling sorry for her; however, after she told my staff I was too old to get pregnant. I was maybe 33. “Ohhhh,” she said. “I thought she was older.”
And yes, I probably have told that story before. Despite the insult, I still think it’s a pretty funny story, even if it is poking fun at me.
Anyway, I was also told shortly afterward that no, I did not look old, I looked like I was in my 20s, which helped a lot. Whether it was actually true or just to make me feel better, I don’t know for sure, because it was definitely solicited, but it sure did the trick at the time.
I really do have to start getting used to the fact that I’m getting older, though. Sooner or later, my age is going to catch up with me, isn’t it?
Or conversely, I could enjoy and appreciate the fact that I’m still relatively young, like, not 80. I look good for 44. Annie said I looked like I was in my 30s, and Sasha also mistook me for being in my 30s, so there’s that. Maybe in my 50s I’ll look like I’m in my 40s. I don’t want to think about that, yet.
I think of my cousin, whom I’ve always looked up to. She’s 48, and still beautiful. So you can still be pretty even if you’re not 27 anymore.
Men have it so easy. They invariably get better-looking with age. My dad looks great, and he’s 73? I think gray hair is handsome. And of course there’s glasses. Derek has them, but he doesn’t really ever wear them, as they have to do with the screen? I think.
Also, men dress better as they mature. My big crush on Zach from 90s TJ Maxx. At 17, he wore these hugely oversized pants (remember JNCOs?) that dragged along the floor and ripped and frayed at the bottom. When he walked he looked like he was floating or gliding across the room. At 19, I loved those pants.
But can you imagine him still wearing them at 42? No way. Well, anyway, I hope not, for his and his wife’s sake.
I suppose I dress more reasonably too, now. No more belly shirts, even if I could. I might still do mini skirts, though, I mean, not ridiculous, showing the bottom of my butt short, but over the knee. Because I’m short, and because I still have pretty good legs.
I still love clunky shoes.
I’m going to have to change my blog’s name. It’s no longer applicable, as my wardrobe for most of my days now consists of jeans; oversized at my request, butter popcorn yellow T-shirts (the yellow color signifies my newness to auditors, so they don’t approach me to ask questions about the company); safety goggles that also fall off my face; gloves; earplugs, and steel-toed clogs.
It’s okay, I’m not in love with this title, anyhow.
Nah, But…Yeah. The Truth About Leah Taylor 