Yesterday kicked my ass.
I know you’ve all experienced those days. You wake up, sweaty and disoriented. Your alarm is going off and you can’t seem to find it. You swing your arms like a lunatic, hoping your efforts will result in hitting snooze for at least another five minutes. (Everybody knows five more minutes of sleep will make all the difference to your day.)
I’ll admit it; I’m the snooze button’s bitch. It has me wrapped around its snoozey little finger, filled with promises of continued dreams and prolonged comfort. We have a love-hate relationship, and I’m okay with that. I really just wish it would allow for longer than five minute intervals. That shit really cramps my dreamin’ style.
I should also mention that every day I wake up to a sassy Latin dance beat. And every day it makes me want to
kill dance . I know you’re jealous.
As I was saying, it was one of those days. The subway was late, I missed my connecting train, everyone in the subway car smelled like feet, bad breath and stale coffee, and as soon as I walked into the office, I was swamped with work and had to deal with the French fuckers that always make my day super awesome*.
*By super awesome, I mean: I’d rather pull my own fingernails out, one by one, than deal with them…. Except I need to pay my bills and I wouldn’t make any money doing that… well, I guess I probably could, but I only have 10 fingernails, and I’m not sure how lucrative the fingernail market is…
I work in the financial industry. It’s in no way, shape or form the field I studied, and I still feel funny when I tell people what I do…largely because math gives me hives. Maybe not hives that you can see, but internally, when I have to do math, I’m covered in them. Yesterday, I had to do a lot of math. With the help of a patient coworker (who didn’t mind hearing me mutter Motherrrrrfuuuuckerrrrrr every few seconds) we effectively calculated something. Reaching the ‘correct answer’ was not even a little bit rewarding and being forced to solve math problems left me in a bit of a tizzy for the rest of the day. That’s possibly the biggest understatement ever. of life.
After work, I ventured to the gym.A good work out will alleviate the rage, right?
My treadmill fucked up and refused to slow down or decline (Don’t make me work harder than I want to, you piece of shit!), and then I ran into my crazy bootcamp instructor, José, who told me to stop eating pasta. I don’t eat a lot of pasta… but I understood what he was trying to say. I’ve cut bitches for less, little man.
I eventually made it home, and immediate hysteria ensued. I was in an emotional state that would have made Lindsay Lohan look away in shame. I stood in the kitchen, in my underwear, wildly crying, doing dishes, all the while praying my roommate didn’t walk in to witness my horrendously embarrassing state of frenzy. (Yo, Roomie, thanks for not coming home. It wasn’t pretty. I promise I did not break any dishes… even if I desperately wanted to.)
The icing on the cake was when the light in the bathroom blew and I realized I didn’t have any replacement bulbs. If you think you want to see an adult weep at a blown out light bulb, I’ll tell you right now that you don’t. It’s a good thing I eventually got my shit together, because when the beets I was cooking semi-exploded, leaving something that resembled a bloody murder scene in my microwave, I was able to laugh it off. (I may have also had a brief conversation with the beets about how weird looking they are and how they look like little alien eggs.) I grabbed them by the root and twirled them around for fun. When I stabbed them with a fork, they made a high-pitched noise. For a brief moment, I felt remorse… And also disgust because ew, I don’t want to eat an alien egg. To my delight, upon cutting into them, I could tell that they were most definitely beets.
And then I ate 2/3 of a pizza and said a silent Fuck you to José.
I woke up this morning with pains in my lower abdomen and suddenly all of the whining, tears and frustration made sense. Typical. Am I right, girls!?