Being a new column to Think Weston, I would like to take this opportunity to make an introduction. Column…People, People…Column. Now that the formalities are out of the way, I’ll tell you a bit about life in the Suburban Jungle.
I am a neurotic mother of two amazing, wonderful, brilliant, perfect children which is saying a lot because I am a harsh critic and an uncompromising disciplinarian. You know, the kids have to sing for their supper kinda stuff… well, they at least have to ask… well, a grunt would be nice. Actually, they just sit and I make multiple meals until one is worthy of their sophisticated taste buds and doesn’t exacerbate their fear of burnt spots, crust, pizza bubbles, or food that touches other food. It is my job to keep them protected from the Florida sun, prehistoric Weston insects, and plasticware with the number 3, 6, or 7 on the bottom. I have to expose them to just enough germs to build their immune system, while using little enough sanitizer to keep them healthy. I also have to remember to feed and water them daily.
Most likely you’ll find that you and I are a lot alike. We live in the same pristine suburb of Weston, which is not unlike the Truman Show. For instance, the Starbucks Dog Walking Crew passes the intersection of Glades and Indian Trace at precisely 7:42, 12:37, and 5:15. You can set your watch by them. I’ve also noticed that no matter how hot it gets, the members of the Biker Brigade never break a sweat, a feat I’m sure they’re getting paid double for.
Like you, I find time each day to take the mandatory trip…or 2…or 3 to Publix, which is more than I can say about my likelihood of showering. I can’t say I haven’t tried to get into the wrong SUV, and I may even curse at Starbuck’s when my “usual” is not waiting for me. Damn the new barista!
Like you, my children are signed up for 102 after school activities, have marathon playdates, and attend enough birthday parties to ensure I will not have a free Sunday for the rest of their young lives. Like you, I attend the school’s holiday boutiques which celebrate everything from Shavuot to Secretary’s Day. Yes, I too find myself obligated to buy frivolous wares, like stickers with my kids names and likeness on them, home tie-dyed clothes, and embellished flip-flops.
Like you, I have crazy friends and acquaintances that are teetering on divorce, having affairs, start pourin’ the Mommy Juice at noon, or all of the above. Like you, I have cellulite begging me to stop wearing short shorts, laugh lines screaming for Restylane, crow’s feet crying for Botox, and spend far too much money trying to look dewy. You and I have a Cinderella Complex, Penis Envy, and Buyer’s Remorse. G-d we have a lot of problems don’t we? Let’s just take a break to call our therapists.
Since we’ve clearly bonded over our commonalities, plus the need for serious therapy and a stiff one (I am talking about liquor), I must come clean on the one Weston trend that I’m not down with. This would be the fashion statement I call “sweans.” Are they sweats? Are they jeans? No one will ever know, but apparently they’re comfortable enough to jog in and dressy enough to belt. Pheww, now I feel like I can tell you anything… and I’ve got a lot to discuss. I’ll see you in the Jungle.