I’m feeling pulled and pushed and dragged and hog-tied this week. (Yeah, I know it’s only Tuesday. I’m just sayin’.)
I am not doing my best at work, I am not doing anything at home except piling clothes on the back of my sofa while mumbling to myself, “I have to get control of this place tomorrow.” Me, who so carefully protects my me time, is burning the candle at both ends and feeling a touch warm as a result.
Tonight, after almost losing it a meeting, after giving in to the fact that my inbox is overrun and my outbox is a myth, like a frigging unicorn that farts rainbows, I gave in. I talked to a friend, then grabbed a willing co-conspirator and headed to the bar for some therapeutic vodka and a cone of fries. My deadlines and my undone work shit will still be there tomorrow. Jesus, will they ever.
And now at home, it’s triage. I’m doing exactly enough to make the place a facsimile of presentable for company tomorrow night and I’m curling up on the sofa with pizza and some guilty pleasure television.
Because really, this is a pretty good week. I’m celebrating a one-week friend-iversary, I’m headed to homecoming on Friday in a convertible with a bitching playlist, there are people who are eager to see me, there is a bacon, scrambled and cheese with my name on it at Bagel Chateau, and really?
The worst thing in my life right now is that baby, my diamond shoes are too tight.