Are you there, Alcohol? It's me Wendy.
That should be the title of my autobiography. Or lifetime original movie. Or one woman show. Or regular old Tuesday night.
Ugh. That opening took me three days to write and at best it registers as a Chelsea Handler on the comedy meter. Which for those of you unfamiliar or unaware falls somewhere in between Dane Cook and nondescript sock puppet.
Traditionally, this has always been a dicey time of year for me. As a student, it was full of finals and term papers. As an instructor, it was full of grading finals and term papers. Much worse, trust me. But, this year, being neither a student nor an instructor for the first time in a looooong time, I thought I would be able to put up my feet, drink some peppermint hot cocoa, get my Christmas shopping done early, and skate into the holiday season with ease. Right?
I'm going to tell it to you straight, reader: I'm ragged. Like really really ragged. Like almost grad school level ragged. Like cry in your boss' office and then vaguely entertain the idea of inventing a pregnancy just so you could have something other than stress to blame it on ragged.
Yeah. Based on a true story, my friends.
And all I can say is: W. T. F.
I am a working professional with remotely regular working hours; I shouldn't have to deal with this crap anymore. But you know, something about me being gone from my desk for essentially an entire month and our office closing down for two weeks at the end of December, has made things a wee bit on the harry side at work. Go figure.
Plus, I started doing these ballet fitness videos and man, are they tough. The next day, my movement is reduced to a strained shuffle and in a Walking Dead happy office like mine, I'm left moderately concerned that someone will plunge an xacto knife in my frontal cortex. Clearly the weapon of choice at an art school in the event of a zombie apocalypse.
Over the Thanksgiving Day holiday, I saw a woman get off a bus in downtown LA and walk towards us. Her shoulders were hunched over a bit and she was dragging her feet, one staggered step at a time. Just like a walker. And, as an avid Walking Dead watcher, my first reaction was not: Why is she walking like that? Or I sure do hope she's okay. No. My eyes were too busy darting around, trying to find the closest, sharpest object.
You know, it's as if I ask myself: is this interesting to other people? And then, when the answer is no, I blog about it.
Anyways, since my little meltdownage on Tuesday, things have gotten better and I'm no longer panicking about getting everything done before I leave--slight shudder--next week. But it will be fine. It will be fine, she said decidedly, though mostly to convince herself.
And today readers, today is my birfday. I would feel awkward announcing it so brazenly like that--as such an obvious ploy for attention--but A. I'm a blogger, so...duh. And B. I really have no shame when it comes to my birthday. It's the one day a year that I allow myself to Kanye West-it and boldly and selfishly relish in the spotlight. So wish me well, goddamn it because I am birthdayzilla. Recognize.
Typically, my birthday is meticulously planned by me and is usually relatively elaborate (Disneyland, Ice skating--this makes me sound like a twelve year old girl, but I swear I'm not). But this year, when Moses asked me what I wanted to do, I first thought party, but then I really didn't feel much like hosting. Next I thought fancy dinner, but then I really didn't feel much like going out. And finally, it dawned on. I wanted to do absolutely nothing.
So we did.
And it was just what I always wanted.
Here's to the last year of my twenties. They've been pretty fab so far.