Yesterday was a day when my panties were in a twist. Figuratively. And, come to think of it, literally.
I am once again AT THAT POINT. The point where the house is a disaster, the dishes have piled up for days, I sleep curled in the only corner of my bed that isn’t strewn with clothes and water bottles and books, and wake up after a 5-hour tooth-grinding slumber only to hear my neighbors engaging in… an “extracurricular activity”… and to find that I am out of clean underwear. But not completely out – just down to the ones I don’t like. The ones I keep around just in case I find myself AT THAT POINT. The ones that are uncomfortable, and leave me going about the tasks of the day with the screaming knowledge that I HATE MY UNDERWEAR RIGHT NOW.
Also, I went to work without realizing how low-cut my shirt was, and so I spent the entire day tugging it up, and feeling self-conscious, and altogether embarrassed.
The phone rang incessantly, and while in the past I have complained about the mind-numbingly quiet hours at work, I found myself feeling insulted and indignant that people are calling? SHEESH. This isn’t my JOB. (Yes, I do realize that it is, in fact, my job.) It gave me a newfound gratitude for the silence I typically spend my days cocooned in – even when the cocoon is more like a sealed Ziploc bag in which I am slowly suffocating.
My jaw hurt. My back hurt. My brain felt spiky and hung-over for no reason. My eyes were tired of the computer screen glare, my mind was tired of post-election Twittering, my feet were tired of high heels. And most of all, my heart was, and still is, devastated about Ben.*
The weight of it all came crashing in at lunchtime when I mindlessly wandered through Target only to spend $17.99 that I don’t have on a tiny tube of eye cream that I know won’t work. But at 26, I am looking in the mirror and seeing wrinkles and an age spot. AGE + SPOT. Now, there are two words you never want to see together. Like shoulder + pad, or skin + flap.
And, speaking of eye cream, I interrupt this blog to bring you the three biggest lies I have ever fallen for:
1) Hemorrhoid cream gets rid of puffy eyes,
2) Stop signs rimmed in white are optional, and
3) Vodka has no calories
Anyway, back to Target. I forked over the cash for the “anti-aging,” “wonder-working” concoction, and went on my merry way. Congratulations, Annie. You’ve just been had.
Today is a classic case of “second verse, same as the first,” with the exception that I am not taking a lunch break, peacing out at 4pm, and flying to San Diego for a wedding – in which I am both a bridesmaid AND the musical act. Except: I’m not packed, I have no idea how to fit this floor-length bridesmaid dress into my suitcase, I haven’t practiced the song, I know that I’m going to forget something imperative like my phone charger or my guitar capo or my underwear…
Oh wait. None left.
LOOK OUT, CALIFORNIA.
* Last night, my old church in Seattle held a prayer vigil for Ben Towne. And Greta wrote some (not surprisingly) beautiful and meaningful words about the service. Please continue to cradle the Townes in your prayers.