My kinda selfie…

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I don’t post selfies. That too self-indulgent and begging for a compliment, for me. I’m mostly a voyeur on social media with a few likes, loves and rah-rahs thrown in, but today I’m writing my selfie version of showing off.

I’ve officially named myself Superwoman. Call it ego. Call it a correct response to my life as of late… either which way, I am awesome. I have at least four gold medals in nurturing, my family, friends, clients, dog, household, vegetable garden and succulent driveway-abondanza! I seem to have endless, giving energy. And it suits me. I’ve inherited all the above talents from my mother, minus the year at beauty school, that’s way below her social food chain.

The other night, after working all day in the salon, dropping by the community veggie garden for some weeding and watering, then home to make turkey stuffed zucchini with a humongous zucchini that I grew, my hubby had a hurty foot. After I did a couple of loads of laundry, brushed la pooch and put on my night cream and PJs, I had him lie on the spa bed, and I surgically removed a deeply embedded splinter from the bottom of his foot with a needle and a mag-light. Then I applied Neosporin and a bandage… THEN I laid down on the bed and moaned. “What am I fucking superwoman?”

To which I responded, “I think I am.”

I write this to say very loud and clear, as I am oft to do, if you can relate to this rant of sorts, then you too are SUPERWOMAN, and it’s time you took home the gold in the all-around of your life. Bravo! To us.

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