Open Letter

Dear My Bladder,

You think you're pretty funny, don't you? I'm of the opinion that YOU'RE of the opinion that you're in charge around here. Well, guess what, Mister? That may have been true in the past, but there's a new sheriff in town.

I'm done with your shenanigans. I'm done with your failure to "mind the door," so to speak, when you think something is funny or when you're due for a break. Just because something amuses you, you think you can open the floodgates, release the hounds, let your freak flag fly? NOT funny.

And your complete lack of support when I wanted to start running again? Not awesome. Way to be a team player. NOT. My butt and my legs have been petitioning for a re-introduction of the Great Exercise Plan of 2008 for a very long time, but because of you, I've been putting them off. I've made so many excuses, all in a misguided attempt to buy you a little more time.

"He's got to get stronger," I'd tell them. "He's been under so much pressure, what with all those kicking babies he had to share space with, and the Brain's tiny attention span, to say nothing of all that DMD he's required to process every day."

However, they're tired of your excuses. We are ALL tired of your excuses. The last kicking baby is almost SEVEN YEARS OLD. The "baby fat" that the rest of my body is hauling around is starting think it's found a permanent home. The Brain has been relieved of some of it's other duties (making breakfast, cleaning, paying attention while driving) and now has plenty of bandwidth to respond to any signals or messages you may send up. And as far as the DMD goes, dude, are you new? Did you just get here? Get used to the DMD, because it's not going anywhere.

So no more falling down on the job for you. No more dropping the ball just because I do a jumping jack or two, or take a couple of bounces on the trampoline. We have season passes to Lagoon and I'm putting you on notice right now: we are NOT going home in the middle of the day because you fell asleep on the job during a round on the Centennial Screamer. And the Tidal Wave? Don't get cute.

I'm calling Dr. Spencer, He of the Fat Fingers, and we're going to fix you up right. Show you who's boss! I'll expect your total and complete recommitment to your work from here on out.

Lovingly,
Cara

p.s. It's a dang good thing I wore really dark jeans today. That lunch meeting could have been way more awkward.