Monday, April 26, 2004
( 9:20 AM ) Rebecca
This weekend has been a relay race with tricky handoffs. Getting back from hiking or biking, tearing off my sweaty clothes, taking a five-minute cold shower (because it takes my shower twenty minutes to heat up) trying on at least three different outfits for the next event, all the while tripping over the laundry basket and the numerous pairs of shoes I've tried and then rejected.
And each time I leave a different mess in my wake as I sprint off to the next event (the play, the show, dinner at GalPal #3s). Meanwhile, the dishes are piling up in the sink, my coffee table is piled high with refuse from my now-disappeared desk, which I gave away two weeks ago, leaving a mess of tangled cords and non-working modems. And for some mysterious reason, the entire apartment smells like garbage even though I just emptied my garbage can.
As I crawl into a bed piled high with rejected outfits, closing my bedroom door against the garbage smells, I think, tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll clean it up. Then I try not to beat myself up about it but instead think of all the things I've accomplished this weekend as squalor crept in.
I biked 20 miles home from work on Friday. I went to two (count them, two!), "cultural"-type events. I led a hike. I saw a band full of cute boys. I revised the elusive Chapter 3 of the book, and came up with a new ending. I bought an 80s-style dress, so ugly its hip (think me in 9th grade if only I'd been sexy). I practiced piano. I drank much too much coffee and ate too much sugar. And, most importantly of all, I fell in looooovvvee.
All right. Now you're probably saying "Uh-huh," with a world-weary sigh. You know, in all likelihood, he'll be:
-here today, gone tomorrow when I fall in love with someone ELSE
-a noncommital bastard
-or a nice guy who I will reject because he's not a noncommital bastard
OK! So maybe you're right! But can I just say this guy is 120% my type? In fact, let me go so far as to say there has never been anyone more my type in the entire world than this boy. Forget that I've only spoken about five words to him in person.
But I'll stop here because the ball is in his court right now and if he doesn't whack it back all my foaming at the mouth willl be for naught. Let's just hope I was as irresistible yesterday as my damn horoscope promised I would be all month.
In other news, I have decided to start lying about my age. Let's all say this together: 32. Repeat it several times so when anyone asks, you won't f*ck up.
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