I love the movie
Bridget Jones’ Diary. I loved the book. If you hang out with me long enough, you can’t help but notice that, like Bridget, things happen to me that don’t happen to normal people. After watching the movie for probably the 500,000th time Monday night, it occurred to me that I was an American, married version of Bridget Jones. Embarrassment for me is a way of life. So is keeping up with my weight and trying not to drink too much. I have a thing for tall, serious attorneys, too. My second-favorite scene in that movie is at the end, after realizing that Mark has left her apartment after reading all the scathing things she has said about him in her diary, she chases after him in a snowstorm in her bra, panties, and tennis shoes.
This scene has always bothered me a little, but I chalked it up to Hollywood. (And to the utter deliciousness of British super-hunk Colin Firth. Can you say “How YOU doin’” with a British accent?) After all, NOBODY goes chasing after someone she loves wearing nothing but her undies. Common sense would dictate that before you go dashing off into the street, you would dedicate four or five seconds to grabbing a shirt and pants. OF COURSE you would.
Davis and I have had a lazy morning. Scott took Katie to school, and Davis and I have cleaned up the playroom and organized the office. He was watching a movie when our neighbor called. She was babysitting a friend’s little boy and wondered if Davis wanted to come over and play. Davis’s lack of other-little-boy companionship was documented in my last blog, and he was thrilled to have a play date. He ran off to change out of his pajamas as I also went to get ready. He called over his shoulder, “I want to go by myself.” I was thinking that he did not want me to stick around with him after I had taken him over to Ellen’s house. No problem, I thought, I can come back and finish the office in peace and quiet.
(WARNING!! GRAPHIC CONTENT!!)
So I am standing in my bathroom, in my bra and panties, about to put in my contacts when I heard the door chime on the alarm system go off. “Davis?” I called, thinking that the wind had set off one of the window alarms by mistake. I slinked into the hall, avoiding all windows, because I didn’t want anyone to see me unclothed. (This is a plot point you’ll want to remember later.) “DAVIS!!” I ran through the house, and there was obviously no Davis. I went into the garage, not knowing what door he used. No luck. I went out towards the backyard, but that door was locked. NO, I thought to myself, but knowing that he had, in fact, gone out the front door. I sprinted to the front door and without thinking, yanked it open and charged outside. Davis was nowhere to be seen. I ran out further into the yard, and just as I could see his bright blue shirt at my neighbor’s front door, a car full of teenage boys came around the corner. Let me stop the story now to say two things:
1. Why the HELL were these people not in school?
2. Let’s just say that I did not have on my best pair of underwear. I was taking my kid to a playdate and going to the gym later. Who takes out the Victoria’s Secret for that?
3. While I do frequent the gym and play tennis regularly, gravity, time, a love of cheesecake, two children and one emergency surgery have left their mark. Things are not where they were years ago when I was the age of these truant people driving down the street.
4. Since I did not have on my contacts, I am going to pretend that the squealing of brakes was in concern for whatever domestic situation was occurring, and not so they could laugh at the naked old lady.
Yes, that was four things, but I’ve had a traumatic morning.
I raced back behind the front door, and called Davis back to the house. Davis received the talking-to of his life and was very, very sorry. In his defense, he thought that I had agreed to his going over to Ellen’s by himself. Once he had agreed that he would never, never, go out of the house without me again, he asked me through his tears, “Mommy, why don’t you have any clothes on?”
The phone rang. I was thinking that it had to be the police, coming to get me for public indecency (or at least intentional infliction of emotional distress on the teenagers), and it was my neighbor Ellen. “What in the world?” she says. “I hear screaming, brakes squealing, and Davis is in my front yard with one shoe and his shirt turned backwards! Also, was someone laughing?”
If anyone wants to buy my house, it will be for sale soon. I’m moving to England.
