Sometimes we expect more than we get.
For instance, I used to be a Jazzercise junkie. Then I had two kids, and I tried taking them with me to the Jazzerdaycare at the location to which I'd become addicted. The kids hated it, and I didn't blame them.
The last place I'd want to be for an hour would be in a small room surrounded by a bunch of crying, petulant, hyper children with nothing but a crapload of worn toys slathered with kidspit and veiled sadness to keep them occupied while mommy sweat it out.
So I stopped going to Jazzercise, despite my inherent love of the music, the kick ball change, the grapevine and the ultimate go-to move, the Jazz Hands.
And this morning, at the persistent suggestion of my lovely post office friend Wanda, I went to Jazzercise once again. I signed up. I took the kool-aid. I'm back in the game, with great expectations of losing some of this junk in the trunk.
Great expectations happen in so many ways. The meal that sounds so good on the menu, the haircut you want to look just like the picture.
And then there's the amalgam of expectations.
Tomorrow, my friend Anne and I are meeting at Jazzercise to get our exergroove on. We'll get all sweaty and jazzy. And then Anne and I have plans to go to the bins.
I'm excited about the Jazzercise, because I just reignited my new great expectation with that past obsession.
And after all my chatty hype about what's to be found at the Goodwill Outlet, Anne's excited about heading to the bins after our sweatfest at Jazzercise.
I hope neither of us is disappointed.