If you couldn't tell by my title, I had a rough, horribly disappointing morning yesterday. I've registered to take a ballet class at the University here, and I've been looking forward to it for several weeks. I don't want to go into too much detail, because everyone knows that no one likes a debbie downer. I apologize up front, however, for the detail I know is inevitably going to spill out. Hearing the sound my fingers make typing noises on a keyboard is therapeutic in a way, and sometimes I just can't stop myself.
You should go check out the new fall anthro line, or maybe one of my favorite uplifiting blogs.
Last chance. Reading this is entering into Alyssa's grouchy day world. My lame-o morning was a combination of a zillion small irritations, that exploded me into a blubbering mess. When I was trying to clean the kitchen, I spilled a bunch of hamburger on the floor, and then when I realized I was spilling, dropped the frying pan holding the meat on my little toe. It really hurt. I almost cried, but, mustering up all of my strength, I decided to not let the stupid frying pan get the better of me. I felt pre-tty heroic. Until I looked in the fridge. I added going grocery shopping to my mental to do list, and tried to not dwell on what a bad wife I feel like I am when I see how limited my husband eating options are. Have I mentioned I love grocery shopping about as much as I love rabbits? (PS- I absolutely hate rabbits. Another story for another day.) Maybe it's more clear to say I hate grocery shopping about as much as I hate touching raw meat. Is that not clear enough? I hate it as much as I hate crusty mullets. If that doesn't illustrate my dislike of shopping for groceries, I really don't know what will. Plus I'm running out of time.
Later, as I was getting myself ready, I spilled an entire bottle of my favorite make up remover all over the bathroom floor. Really annoyed now, I cleaned the mess up. When I was looking for a pair of shoes that was in my duffel bag from last weekend (which NO I still haven't fully unpacked, and YES, I realize that's ridiculous since I've been home for 72 hours now), I discovered my travel shampoo exploded all over one of the pockets. At this point I was ready to throw a tantrum. You know, like a two year old. I cleaned it up. After I made the bed, straightened up the living room, and grabbed my keys, I was determined to be in a better mood, but I was still unusually grouchy. I got in the car. I turned the car on. I thought mean things about the moron drivers. Excuse me. I thought disagreeable things about the other drivers on the road (who happen to be fellow children of God).
I don't want to go on.
You can always tell when I've been crying, because my cheeks get a lovely shade of pink, and the skin around my eyes stays nice and dewy and moist. It's basically an un-fun, but free skin care program. Also not fun is the fact that when I cry for more than 5 minutes, my eyes are sore for the rest of the day, and my nose runs for at least a few hours afterwards. Oh. And I feel like everyone can tell that I've been crying (even though they can't), because I can physically feel it.
When I got to work, I had what felt like a pinched nerve in my back, and had every intention of quitting if anything went wrong or if anyone so much as looked at me in a less than 'happy to see you' way. I had just had it. I'd had it, and it wasn't even noon yet. Gideon had texted me right after my class was done, "How did your class go?" I didn't answer. I didn't want to talk about it at all, let alone through texting. A few hours later he wrote, "Hi. Are you ok?" I love my husband. He can read me like a book, even when I'm silently not texting him. I wrote him something about how it wasn't my day, I loved him, and I would talk to him later tonight. All I wanted was to get through the day.
I did. I got through work, and successfully went grocery shopping without killing anyone (it was a close call). When I got home, I sat in the car, a lump still in my throat, and tears on the verge of surfacing. I just wanted to be able to walk in, hug my husband, and act like it had been a normal, happy day. I did pretty good at first:
Me- "Hi honey, I'm home!"
Gid- "Hi hon, how are you?"
Me- "Good, how was your day?"
Gid- "So you didn't have too good of a morning?"
Me- (lump in throat coming back, and horrible pouty face surfacing) (sniffle) " ...No."
Gid just came over to where I was standing, and hugged me, as the sniffles turned into tears. Frustrated, I started thinking about how all of the things that had made my day seemed so silly. But thinking about how I was such a crybaby only made me cry harder. I'm lucky Gid is patient. A lot of guys would probably just give me a few bucks and suggest I go rent a chick flick, and buy some chocolate (maybe even midol).
Not my gid.
I think some days are just harder than others. And I think that's ok. As long as you be sure to pick yourself up (or in my case, let out a good cry), and keep moving forward. As my good friend Anne of Green Gables says,
"Tomorrow is new.
With no mistakes in it.
Thats all for now, my bloggy buddies.
Hopefully my grouchy post didn't scare you away.
Wishing you a lovely Wednesday.