I wore Halloween socks to Zumba this morning, hoping they'd help me feel a little less ancient or movement-impaired than I usually do when shaking and shimmying like a lunatic, but they didn't. A few of us had on Halloween-colored clothes, but no one came in costume, thank goodness, which would’ve made Zumba-ing like a pack of wild Zombies impossible to do.
I had to stagger drunkenly to my water bottle between each song, for quick pick-me-up slurps, which did help me, miraculously, to make it through the entire hour without melting into a little puddle like the Wicked Witch of the West.
As soon as late afternoon rolls around, right before the sun goes down, I’m leaving the house to escape the knock knock, who’s there madness, though, since I no longer have any reason to celebrate, now that the kids are grown up and gone (boo hoo).
If you’re wondering where I’ll be, I’ll be hiding out in the dark at the movies, where I won’t have to worry about opening and shutting the front door (which sticks), my inability to curb my enthusiasm for eating miniature candy (which I can’t resist), or the incessant, unending ding dongs and loud, crashing door knocking of costumed children demanding treats.
After I get home, when Halloween is officially over, listen carefully (now that the doorbell's stopped ringing) and you might be able to hear me giddily counting down the days to my favorite holiday: Thanksgiving. 25…24…
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