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balance

16 Aug

Balance seems like something I’ll think about when I’m thirty, living in a single-bedroom apartment with white walls, a two-year old, and bi-monthly dinner dates with other couples. I can see myself struggling to straighten my hair in front of a smudgy mirror after deciding the loose curls looked a little too messy. Daniel’s sitting on the bed, dressed already, stressing me out with minute-by-minute reminders of the time before our reservation at Ruby Tuesday. Paul sends me a text, so I toss my phone to Daniel to read aloud: We’re here. He says. Where are you guys? I throw my hands in the air and huff in frustration, because my hair’s a mess and we still have to drop Jude off at Mom and Dad’s. I put a couple of bobbypins in my purse, unplug the flat iron, and walk through a mist of Bath & Body Works Cherry Blossom fragrance before strapping Jude to his car seat on the left side of Daddy’s four-door sedan, handing the diaper bag to my parents, apologizing for being twenty minutes late, and saying yes to dessert because I think I deserve it.

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