Today was not a fun day. It didn’t start out fun and it wasn’t fun all afternoon.
I wanted to write a post about people at work and the work I was doing and all my feelings and frustrations about that. But I realized, well before writing anything, that it’s really not a wise thing to do. For lots of reasons, not the least of which is because no one really wants to hear me rage out.
So I didn’t write it. But I thought about it. All day long. While I handled the work and the people and the problems and my seething rage.
And then I got to leave work, go outside where the sun was shining and my husband was waiting with the car, and I got to go home, where I exercised and felt better about myself and the rest of the world.
And now things are better. I’m showered and bundled up in pajamas. I’m not balancing the checkbook tonight because Justin’s right—it can wait a few more days. I’m not worrying about the laundry on the dining room table—okay, that’s a fib; I’m thinking about it, but I’m probably (no guarantees) not going to put it away tonight.
Instead, I’m going to go watch a home decorating program I recorded and fantasize about decorating a different place than where we live right now. And keep hoping that they’ll call about the interview. (They haven’t decided whether or not to actually fill the position.)
And I’m going to get into bed and fall asleep super-stinkin’ early because, dang it, this girl needs more sleep if she’s going to have to do it all over again tomorrow.