The Guilted Age

In the immortal words of Barbra and Barry: And we have nothing to be guilt of...

Then why do I feel so guilty when I do something for myself?
Tonight I went to the gym and ran turkey-related errands instead of doing the dinner, return emails, bath, return emails, bedtime, return emails thing.
First of all, let me say, what a treat!

Wait: Our love could climb any mountain, near or far, we are and we'll never let it end. I had to. It's stuck in my head now.

That hour and half felt so good—and you know, I felt guilty about the fact that it felt good. I also felt guilty about not working (on my mag site www.thefamilygroove.com—awesome though round the clock) or hanging with the fam or teaching my child something or teaching my man something (hehe) or, I dunno, doing something routine-related. But tonight at 6:15, there I was treadmilling it up. Me—alone. And hey, was that me making multiple stops at various stores, pulling into a spot, opening the driver's side door, closing the driver's side door, pressing the lock button and walking away from the car? What? No wrestling with Britax straps and a bulky, but cute Baby Gap coat? No clumsy, momentum-induced hook of my purse onto my shoulder as I balance my 21 month old?

I felt like a teenager who just got her license—yup, just out tooling around on her own. Why, I got a coffee just 'cause I could do it sans baby. Yes, that bit of stolen time— music loud, arms free—was a refreshing shot of me-ness. And you know what, I like me. I miss me.

And as I write this, I am over the guilt. In fact, that song is out of my head and has been replaced by George Michael's "Freedom." Equally as good, but now much more suiting of my outlook.