I can't put into words my adoration of Downton Abbey. That's why, when perusing Hulu Wednesday night in an attempt to numb myself to sleep on the couch and finding that the second season of Downton Abbey was available for viewing, I forewent words and squealed a loud, foreign sound similar to that of a teenage girl finding One Direction serenading her at the front doorstep.
Watching Downton Abbey has me yearning for a different sense of womanhood. The love story of Matthew and Lady Mary wound by the allegiance to unforgiving virtues whispers in my soul a conversion to greater modesty, respect, and poise. The show has me searching for new heights of femininity which I will likely follow up with a copious amount of reading and pithy actual change in my daily living.
This morning, after debating whether a trip to Lowe's deems a shower necessary or not, I made an impulse decision to jump in the shower. I figured I could be quick and that I didn't need to secure/confine/white jacket my son in order to do so in peace. However, there was a silence when I stepped out of the bathroom, one that had me searching through the house in nothing but my bath towel. While I should have been concerned about a possible neighborly sighting due to many opportunities for window exposure, I was focused on Thomas's safety...and the can of white paint which I spent thirty minutes trying to open earlier with every conceivable tool in our house. A toddler has a way of sniffing out smashing impossibilities or excavating ancient paint cans their mommy has unsuccessfully attempted to open. I spotted a splash of water on the entry room rock floor and my eyes shifted up to see in split second motion picture fashion an open front door, a garden hose gone wild, and a blur of a toddler wearing nothing but his diaper and a grin.
The actions which followed were horrifying. Me hiding behind a wall and hissing begs at Thomas to retreat inside. Me sprinting to my room for clothes. Me sprinting back to the living room because my bra was where I had left in that night I watched Downton Abbey wee into the night. Me sprinting back to my room for clothes, 2nd attempt. Me running out of the house to chase down a toddler, my eyes darting arrows of frantic madness and yet also thinking, "Do I have clothes on?" as a neighbor drove by and I politely waved so as to retain a semblance of normalcy.
This escaping toddler incident illuminates the stark contrast between me dreaming for a supremely feminine life and me celebrating a shower which doesn't invite chaos into my home.
Oh, and that 1st QT about me numbing myself to sleep. No worries. That was just because my husband was out of town. He's back now, so there won't be any more willful adherence to television marathons. Instead, we do this routine where I tell Paul every detail of my day, and the new evolution of my goals, and the progress on my project list and so forth until the point where I ask Paul a question and he musters a "huh?", "yuh", or a "hmm", and I decide I should stop talking and go to bed.
Earlier this summer I posted about the ridiculous mantra all or nothing. I'm still trying to put this into practice because I think, in appropriate instances, it can be a very healthy mindset. My happiest moderation find has been taking a stroll around the neighborhood after dinner. I don't put on a sports bra or tweet my mileage or push myself to a heart rate of any extreme. The fresh air and the quietness is enough to reward me for an action so minimal.
If you haven't checked out Jennifer Fulwiler of Conversion Diary, the hostess of Quick Takes, you should. She's equal parts helpful and hilarious.