The way the husband talks, you'd think I was a racehorse.
"Pace yourself!" he says. "Pace yourself."
He says I move too fast. I've yet to beat a thoroughbred, but he could have a point.
The other night I was invited to watch a movie outdoors with several friends on a patio. When the movie was over, I was the first to start carrying snack bowls into the house. I flung aside the screen to the sliding door and charged directly into the glass.
A gal coming behind me saw it, chuckled, and said she wouldn't mention it to the others.
She didn't have to. They heard it.
I've tried slowing down, but it feels like a car that idles rough.
Our girls get on me for not drying dishes thoroughly. "Why waste time with a towel doing what the air will do naturally?" I ask, dropping a wet spatula into the utensil crock.
I've also been told to stop jumping on the counter to get at the top shelves. I should go get a ladder. I've gotten what I needed, am off the counter and revving up the mixer by the time someone else finds the ladder.