Things are pretty mellow around here today. Thanks to the beautiful weather and the presence of some Olympics-worthy volleyball players (AKA the Mitchell family) Wes and I are feeling the effects of too much exercise on overweight bodies. We both played very well, at least, so we have that consolation while we limp around the house.
We had a blast, though. We all gathered to celebrate Wesley’s 28th year and our niece’s fourth year with burgers and ice cream cake (ooh, a burger sounds SO GOOD right now) and a few hearty rounds of volleyball. This may or may not be shocking to you, but it turns out that it’s really hard to move quickly when your stomach is full of half a pound of ground beef. Shocking, yes?
The whole night was a blast with one notable exception: I twisted my ankle and, as I was going down, I may have said a naughty word in front of my nieces. Yes, am terrible person for spouting profanity in front of beautiful little girls.
The thing I can’t stop thinking about, though, is how it just kind of came out. It was effortless. It was an s-bomb and it went off without a hitch. I normally don’t swear all that much (though anyone who knew me back in high school would swear that was a vicious lie) and I definitely try not to swear in front of children, but I find that sometimes those satisfying little profanities just float out my mouth before I can think to lasso them back in.
Do you have this problem? Surely I’m not the only one in the world who’s shouted an involuntary bad word while narrowly avoiding a traffic accident or sighed a curse word after injuring oneself in the kitchen.
After all, I’m a firm believer in the nigh unbeatable satisfaction of a well-placed f-bomb. I avoid that most versatile of swear words as much as possible, but I can definitely still appreciate its visceral appeal and cathartic nature. Just because I can appreciate a pair of Manolo Blahniks doesn’t mean I’m about to run out and spend my paycheck on a pair, you know?
If you’re like Wes and can make neither heads nor tails of my analogies, that last sentence just meant that I can appreciate the f-word without adding it to my middle-class suburban patois.
I suppose rather than asking whether you, too, find it as difficult to restrain yourself from swearing, I should be asking whether I can ever redeem myself for swearing in front of my nieces. I bet my comeuppance will come when my kids someday drop an f-bomb in front of their grandmother and, when asked where they learned it, they proudly proclaim that they learned it from their mother, whom it would seem never quite got the upper hand over her filthy mouth.