STEP ONE: Leave work on Friday evening, and then return because of circumstances beyond your control.
It all started at Happy Hour...
It was a calm, brisk Friday evening after a hellacious week. No one knew why it was hellacious, either, which just lent itself all the more to being disgusting and full of ick. The week dragged on endlessly, full of frustrating tasks and impatient people all struggling to trudge through the dreary doldrums of their lives. A break could not be caught. No snack time meanderings, or lunch dates, or early-evenings-out-of-the-
So when Friday appeared, full of gleeful promise and exciting pre-weekend zazzle, the spirit within the office rose tangibly and deliberately. Friday was here, and we were going to celebrate.
After conquering the work day (or, at least, most of it...), the Merry Sojourners descended from their hellish heights onto the bright and shining (or, at least, not totally dark) streets of their fair city. Henceforth to the tavern they went.
It was there where my belly decided that it was done with this dreary life, and threw in the towel.
Or, more specifically, threw in my lunch.
And my afternoon snack.
And my one glass of wine, which I had washed down with spicy wings and a glass of water. (This is important, because it was just the one glass of wine. I wish I could say this was a drunken endeavor. Oh, if that were true...)
In the tiniest restroom I've ever had the pleasure of visiting.**
My evening - full of delightful plans of work-escaped-ness and freedom - came crashing down around me. Instead I spent a painful half hour hobbling around the block between the bar and my workplace, willing my stomach to settle to at least a point of neutrality, if not complacency. Unfortunately, upon realizing that my gastronomical excitement wasn't over, I was resigned to shuffle back into my office where I knew I could find solace without making a purchase or risking an infection at the hands of a public toilet.
STEP TWO: Spend what should be the second-most food-filled weekend of the year with a wobbly stomach.
The weekend was spent in various states of wellness. While at home, I felt just fine. But prolonged activity - or a breath of fresh air - was enough to send me reeling back down to the depths of discomfort. While all nourishment throughout the remainder of the weekend did stay comfortably within my gastro-intestinal tract where it belonged, I spent the weekend nursing plain beverages and trying to maintain a bland diet that wouldn't render me totally devoid of nutrition, but also wouldn't send me scuttling back into the bathroom at warp speed.
Which would have been alright... if it wasn't an action-packed weekend centered entirely around food.
Friday evening there was a plan to go to one of the most fantastic burger joints that our fair city has to offer. No dice.
Saturday, we found that the abysmal absence of groceries within our kitchen would force us out into the Great Wide World in search of nomz. Lunch was sandwiches, followed by a difficult few hours of shopping wherein I was short with Boyfriend of Amazingness because of belly-ouches, and he not only put up with my negativity, but also held my hand in the produce section. Not a loss, but not at all the optimal procedure.
Saturday evening held an opportunity we always try to take advantage of: The First-Saturday-Of-The-Month Dine-And-(Watch Others)Dance at an awesome restaurant. Watching of Dancing: Check. Dining: Nice try... but not so much.
Sunday morning I Adventured in Organized Religion with my maternal unit and my Sibling-Bot to a new place to listen to a very inspiring person who works as the head of one of my favorite charities. After the service: Cake. Sigh.
Which brings us to Sunday evening. I live in Patriots' Nation, dear ReaderFriends. You cannot fathom the nomz I had at my disposal last evening. Every delicacy you can consider, dripping with cheese and bacon and chocolate and awesome. And what did my bowl spend the evening filled with: plain noodles, one plain chicken wing and the smallest helping of macaroni and cheese that I felt I could get away with. Which is unfortunate on more than one level... I certainly didn't attend the party to watch the fantastic sporting event.
STEP THREE: Spend Monday morning battling an epic case of "The Walls Are Creeping In And I Must Clean All The Things Now."
This morning, I stepped out of the shower and was faced with two baskets of clean clothing that Boyfriend of Amazingness had laundered over the weekend. Instead of pawing through in search of the clothes I needed, I decided to take advantage of my "five extra minutes" that I found by getting out of the shower in a timely-ish fashion (thanks in large part to a "So, how's your belly button looking this morning?" from the other side of the curtain five minutes after I ceased all purposeful motion within my Blissful Escape by Hot Waters...) by folding my way down to the undies I so desperately needed. By the time I found them, I was almost finished with the basket. So I just wrapped it up.
And then put all of the folded clothes away.
And then gathered up the dirty clothes from around the room and put them into the empty basket.
(And then assuaged Boyfriend's pouting self that laundry was a perpetual motion machine, and it wasn't his fault that there was more.)
That should have been the end of it... But I couldn't stop.
I loaded the dishwasher, and started it.
I washed all the other dishes that were in the kitchen.
I tidied up the countertops.
And by the time I realized what was going on...
STEP FOUR: Futz around with "chores" for so long that you run out of time to do your hair, your makeup or find your cute necklace.
I have very few pieces of "Armor" that I wear every day. I have things that I wear because I like them, and thinks that I wear because they make me feel cute, but there are few things that I wear because I feel lost without them.
My two rings and my watch are these items.
My rings are ones which were bought in a pair. One stayed with me, and the other went to my younger sister. No matter where we are, there's always a little piece of the other close by. (Yeah, yeah. Gag. Cutesy. Whatever. I don't judge your sibling traditions... Even the one where you compare knuckle hair. Yeah, I mean you...)
Makeup I can (and often do) go without. I prefer to have it on in the office, because the barrage of concerned questions about my health overwhelm me. But it's not a hardship to deal without it.
Hair I can play off. I usually leave the house with soggy locks in the morning. I abhor hair dryers, so the only options are to wash it at night and wake up with Frizz-A-Palooza, or to wash it in the morning and spend the morning with a damp head. I'm okay with that. It means I have a little flexibility in fixing my hair in the mirror at work.
But I'm lost without my sparkles.
STEP FIVE: Realize after decided that today would be a fantastic Mental Health Day that you promised to cover the Receptionist's morning off.
Yup, I was already halfway to deciding that today wasn't worth the effort when I realized there was no way to *not* go to work this morning. And not only that... I had to be on time.
Not a small feat when this realization came to me ten minutes after I should have left for work.
STEP SIX: Spend the morning on a glitchy computer, in an uncomfortable chair, working on the third reitiration of an instruction list that will be ignored.
And those, my ReaderFriends, are Six Simple Steps To The Monday-est Monday.
** No, seriously. Boyfriend of Amazingness visited it first, and informed me with a gleeful giggle that I "had to check it out." Upon inspection, I found that the subject of his awe was that if one single element within that Teeny Tiny Tinkle-Room had taken more than its fair share of space, he simply wouldn't have fit inside. If any smaller, the depth and breadth of that glorified (but only just) closet would have forced the previous occupant to stand in the doorway and creatively cock his leg around the doorframe in order to hit the commode. And while that would have been a clever and exciting sight, I think I'm glad that it had a tiny little sliding panel door, which added the two extra inches they needed to not only stand comfortably, but also to turn around and wash their hands. The absence of piddle on the seat was all the better for my vomiting comfort, my dear.
No comments:
Post a Comment