It seems to me this blogging business can all too quickly become a sort of trite, overly-introspective and somewhat annoying narrative of one's daily life and thoughts, perhaps too many details for anyone outside of your own brain.
I'm not sure how to get around that.
And perhaps it isn't necessary.
I will have to do some more thinking on this subject.... maybe a little introspection, thinking out loud, getting my thoughts out on this page... hee-hee.
I accept what I am, and I am a blogger.
If it's too much blah-blah-blah, then don't read it.
Back to my Monday...
I found myself oddly energetic, yea, even cheerful on this post-holiday Monday. I have found that post-holiday Mondays, not to be confused with post-holiday Tuesdays, have a sourness to them for which few have developed a liking.
On any other post-holiday Monday, I would be like the rest of my coworkers, clunking around the office with a forced smile reminiscent of the one you contort your face into after opening an undesirable gift in front of an eager in-law.
But not me.
Today, I was the irritating "neighbor who calls loudly to thee in the morning" (see: Bible), brimming with strangely positive energy after a short, sleepless night.
I did my best not to call too loudly to any of my neighbors, but having beaten the odds by barely making my 6:30 bus (yes, I sprinted) by sacrificing my morning blueberries and depriving my precious garden of a much-needed watering, I had earned the smile on my face, and I wasn't about to fake grumpiness just to avoid usnpoken conflict with those sourpusses.
I even sported a grin after being disappointed by a poorly-stocked ATM in attempts to deposit a $46.44 check. What did I do?
Hopped back in my dusty Bonneville and drove around the bank to the other ATM, which happened to be overflowing with envelopes, and deposited my small quarry with a satisfaction only a gal who cuts coupons and pinches pennies can feel.
It's ridiculous, I know. I can't explain my good mood, although I tried to reason through it all day, wondering how in the world I could feel the way I did without so much as an afternoon crash (which I fully expected).
I was "a-blowin' and a-goin'" (to quote my boyfriend's dad) the entire day, 8-5, with only a short break from the Crabby Ladies for lunch, which I felt necessary in order to preserve both my countenance and my sanity.
Little did I know what awaited me at the fateful hour of 6:15pm... the 533 Express to Gilbert.
A minor detail seemingly incapable of undoing an entire day of unwavering rainbows and butterflies, but alas... I was not strong enough to withstand the heat.
My cold-blooded, Norwegian stamina failed me quickly on the 100+ degree bus.
And no, I am not exaggerating.
It was 100+ degrees outside, actually cooler than the inside of the bus on a baking freeway.
Fortunately, I had a craving for an extra-large, icy lemonade before embarking on the Dark Ride to Crushed Dreams and Withered Hopes, and my dearest Thomas sustained me with his advice to take an ice cube and rub it on my neck and wrists.
Don't get me wrong.
This was not a steamy picture of romance, my knight in shining armor graciously providing relief with the gentle caress of a lemony ice cube...
We were seated across the widest aisle from each other, close enough to share only the most necessary information if spoken very loudly above the roar of the bus engine and whipping, hot wind through open windows, and with plenty of distance to avoid increasing body heat exponentially by touching someone else.
The ice cube tip was shared by means of shouting and sign language, providing some relief nonetheless, but not enough to salvage my fast-dwindling karma.
(My apologies to all who know the true definition of "karma" and are offended by my loose usage of the term. Plbbbt!)
Long story long, needless to say and other cliches that may apply to this ever-so-bloggy tale, I was a glistening, limp rag of a girl by the time we reached the hot, hot truck at the Park-and-Ride 45 minutes later.
I had long forgotten any aspirations for my evening, possessed by one, (literally) burning desire only to remove my sweaty clothes and lie flat on my back beneath a very large, very fast ceiling fan.
This I did, minus the flat on my back, plus a few cathartic groans when my socks were removed (don't tell me that isn't the best feeling in the world) and off into my corner chair with a cool, down pillow I went, ever so grateful to Tom for offering to feed the dog, which is usually my evening chore.
I awoke sometime later, dehydrated and icky-groggy (you know how this feels, i am sure), wondering if it was actually detrimental to my health to be waking up instead of relocating from chair to bed. The smell of food convinced me otherwise, and I was positive my dear mother had stopped by during my nap and fixed me some of her perfectly greasy, fried potatoes.
I was wrong.
I had somehow mistaken the smell of George Foreman-grilled steak and frozen green beans for my mother's fried potatoes. Surely my sense of smell had been damaged by my harrowing journey!
I shuffled around the kitchen, eyes barely open, driven more by hunger than by exhaustion (exhaustion usually wins, but I'm on a diet). I fixed myself a Lean Cuisine mac & cheese with a veggie burger topped with yogurt and salsa on the side (hey, anything tastes fantastic on a low-calorie diet, people)... and please, please, PLEASE- don't forget the icy cold Diet Barq's that made the venture into the kitchen all worth it.
My culinary adventure woke me up just enough to retreate to my blogging spot, complete with crooked lamp and rickety chair, strewn bills and yes, even a label-maker at my side which had been used over the weekend to label shelves in the linen closet (call me OCD, but I can't stand unfolding sheets to figure out what-the-heck-size they are).
I am content, again.
Sure, it would be nice if there were one, last gulp of Diet Barq's left in the can, but there isn't, and I'm okay with that.
I shall now make good on my promise to myself to retire earlier than I did last night, being sure to medicate the new red bumps on my chin with benzoyl peroxide (thank you, 533 Express from Hell).