Sunday Kind of Love

I'm going to start this post by saying today was a bad day.  I woke up exhausted and hungover, the result of 12 hour workdays Monday-Wednesday this week AND a double bloody mary.    As I pulled into the parking lot at work every cell of my body was dreading actually doing anything productive or meaning full for the institution. My pores were exuding my distaste at the whole exercise. I thought to myself, "Self, today would be a great day to read other people's blogs and look at pictures of pretty dresses on the Macy's site, or better yet, food porn from Hello Cupcake!"  But no, I instead realized today would be a day of wrangling my disobedient body chemistry, and I don't like to do that, aside from (occasionally) wearing deodorant.  

I started the day by cleaning my desk to avoid actual work.  This is a clever technique because I appeared very busy and occasionally dashed around in search of more file folders or stacking boxes (whatever you call those rubbermaid containers that you put papers in).  Everyone knows that dashing in an office setting is a positive deterrent from people talking to you and asking for things because you look stressed, and in this day in age, possibly on the brink of going postal.   I was proud of having the foresight to employ the clever technique known as "avoidance" which has been popularized by problem avoiders such as alcoholics, Miss Havisham, and Charlie Sheen.  

Havishsham is my homegirl.

After my half-assed cleaning attempt (basically I just consolidated piles) I actually did some work.  It was the worst.  Everything I touched today seemed to turn to shit.  My meetings ran late and were so boring I was considering propping my eyelids open with toothpicks.  My inbox was full of messages riddled with unsolvable problems, and quite frankly, problems that I absolutely had no interest in solving.   The half-sandwhich leftover from dinner last night  I attempted to eat for lunch was soggy.   Clearly, no human has ever suffered like I did today.   

Then, as soon as I got out of work, desperate for some kind of respite, my mom called me with terrible news about my Dad's place of business, and no sooner did I talk her down from that and check my mailbox hoping for a nice Victoria's Secret Catalogue, did I instead receive a letter from the city of Dayton.   A speeding ticket.   I was caught on "hidden camera" at 1 pm on a sunny day.  Here's what I think about that... 

I didn't even actually get caught!    The founding fathers never intended for me to not speed and chain-smoke in my car out of view of  police.  It's in the constitution.   Fucking liberal, hippie, pinkos.

...But, the silver lining to all this, is the fact that I'm not actually bothered by any of this.  Honestly.   I had a horrible day, sufficiently horrible, that Daniel Powter's "Bad Day" doesn't even accurately sum it up--and I'm not even getting kicked off American Idol.  But here's the thing.  I'm giddy inside.   I'm humming Etta James's "Sunday Kind of Love."   Despite my exhaustion and disgust with situations in my life, I am also hopelessly, madly, blissfully happy.   I've got a new special fella in my life and every time I think about being homicidal or enraged, I instead think about how happy I am to have him and instead I get a smug smile on my face.  It's really revolting.   I'm annoying myself a little even, and as someone conceded and vain, it takes a lot to make me annoyed with myself--I usually think I'm pretty great.

So while everything around me falls to shit and my job is frustrating and terrible and I feel like I just can't catch a break--I'll also be impervious to the whole thing and humming "Sunday kind of Love" for the rest of the day.