I chuckled to myself. I've always loved a nice compliment. Then I glanced down at my attire: a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and Adidas mesh shorts that touched the tops of my knees, finished off with rubber Croc sandals. Huh, well that's strange. Why would anyone in their right mind call me a "baddie" in this get-up? So I pondered for a moment. Did I mishear that cat-call? Did the sound of the muffler distort their adolescent yells? And if so, what word sounds similar to baddie?
OMG.
Did those assholes call me a FATTY?!?
I watched as the truck drove farther down the street until it parked in a neighbor's driveway. I continued pedaling through the neighborhood, contemplating my next move. I could hear them out back at their friend's pool, and I thought maybe I could just pop my head over the fence with a cool, "Hey bros! Just wanted to clear something up...did you guys refer to me as a fatty or a baddie? If it was the latter, then continue on with your TikTok!"
I pulled into my driveway and presented the situation to my husband. "What in the hell is a baddie?" he asked. (Keep in my mind my husband is nearing forty and is nowhere near as hip as myself, so I read him the definition.) He stared at me for a moment and then replied, "Yeah, they definitely didn't call you a baddie."
I rode around the neighborhood on my geriatric bike seat, fuming. Just wait till you dweebs get married and your wife bears two children for you. Let's see how much of a baddie she is then, huh boys? That youthful metabolism will slow down, just you wait! And then throw a pandemic into the mix!! See how good she'll look in those stupid booty shorts then!
I took the higher road (not literally, because I was out of breath from pedaling so hard), and left the boys to their pool party. Pick your battles, Stefanie. Also, pizza had just arrived.
If you've ever followed my blog, you'll know that my two biggest struggles are OCD and my weight. This pandemic has not been kind to either. For the most part, I've avoided the dreaded COVID weight gain (although not according to those pimple-face fools), but the past three weeks have been an exception. I finally scheduled a date for Greta's tonsillectomy. Surgery of any kind is a huge trigger for my OCD---I can't even talk about it without tearing up. An image of my child intubated on an operating table makes my heart race and my palms sweat. That image strikes fear in my body, and so my super healthy coping mechanism is to stockpile food like a squirrel in the winter.
Thankfully, the doctor performing the surgery is a close friend (lucky him!), and although I couldn't convince him to FaceTime me during the surgery so I could double-check his work with all the YouTube videos I viewed, I knew she was in the safest of hands. (Shoutout to Dr. Ulis!)
The tonsils are out, and Greta is recovering. We stayed one night in the hospital and are now back home, resting. (This is super challenging because I'm such a fierce opponent of screen time.)
I took Millie to the local park the other night so we could spend some much needed time together, and I'm on the little mouse exercise wheel and I'm back in my Mickey shirt and Croc sandals when I hear a deep rumbling in the parking lot. I kid you not, that same truck of teeny-boppers peeled into that parking lot and off they went to the basketball court, laughing and cussing. This was my chance. I could confront them and clear this all up once and for all. But Matt had tacos waiting at home.
So off I walked. Like a baddie.
