I’m sitting up rubbing my eyes, yawning and avoiding bed. Why? The pizza. Yes, I said it, pizza. It’s been a long week. Most of them are, but this week there was the added fun of doing 31 report cards in a whole new way, and oh, by the way, I’m still sniffling and not feeling all that super great. Do you see where this is going? Wah, wah, wah. I know. It’s not pretty, this little pity party of mine, and it gets worse.
Lunch was a friend’s belated birthday celebration, Jimmy John’s style. Yum. Then there was that after school meeting where those little tiny Milky Way dark nuggets kept calling my name. Damn them. Add in this morning’s Starbuck’s run and you have a nutritional disaster, so why stop there? When you work from 7:15 am to 6:30 pm with a 30ish minute lunch, you tend to get cranky by the end of the day. Now factor in driving the opposite direction from home to pick up an equally cranky teen, whose first words are, “what’s for dinner?” and you have the perfect storm. Yes folks, I ordered pizza.
It was lovely. It was hot and gooey and had just the right ratio of sauce to toppings. I enjoyed every bite, and there were a lot of bites. UGH. Now it’s late, I’m bloated right down to my fingers and toes, and I dread going to sleep. As the old Alka Seltzer ads used to say, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to plop plop and fizz fizz. Tomorrow is another day, and I will do better.
I have a cold. It will more than likely turn into a sinus infection, which will then either morph into bronchitis or else end with laryngitis. This is a prediction based on past history, not the rantings of a hypochondriac lunatic, even thought that’s what it sounds like to me. Said cold is annoying, especially the fight with the accompanying stress incontinence (every sneeze is a challenge) and the internal struggle to ward off yet another monster cold sore. And I do mean monster. These things look as though they’re going to devour my face, and they take FOREVER to heal. Thank you, former husband, for sharing that particular little viral gem with me. UGH.
I didn’t share this little factoid in order to gain sympathy (although deliveries of homemade chicken soup are welcome). No, I shared it in order to let you in on a weird little secret, and to ask if I’m alone in this. You see, every time I get sick, I have these deranged delusions of grandeur about what fabulous workouts I WOULD be doing, if only I weren’t sick. If only… I would be walking three miles around the neighborhood before work. If only… I would be doing my belly dancing DVD (it’s quite challenging for me, by the way!). If only… I would be jumping rope and sparring. Really? Nah. But my mind thinks so. Why? Do I need to have my mental health checked out as well? Sniff. Now for my final “if only” thought for the day… If only I could go back to bed.
Oh Yes! I won! Impossible to imagine, since I don’t really play, but we can pretend. Two scenarios play out in my mind. Scenario one involves a very large home in a swanky neighborhood (not far from where I currently live), a house staff that includes a cook, a personal trainer (if not Chris Powell, then a clone of him), a housekeeper, and a groundskeeper (you know, for the pool, lawn, and gardens). My sweetheart and I would have done a bit of traveling, and would be settling in to our new life. I would have time every day to work out, read, write, quilt, and scrapbook. Of course the house would be huge and have dedicated areas for all of those activities, so I wouldn’t need to pull things out and put them away each time.
The studio would house my quilting and scrapbooking (and other craft) supplies. It would be sunny and cheerful, and in the evening it would be well lit. Of course it would be outfitted with ample storage for my ever growing collection of fabrics, papers, and notions. I would have tall counters for cutting and comfortable spaces to spread out and design and create. I would invest in a longarm quilting machine, and hire an expert tutor to help me get the hang of it. If I don’t get the hang of it, I would just have her come over and do my quilts for me.
My study would be the reading and writing center of the home. It would be a cozy room with walls of books, comfortable seating with good light, and a lovely desk with my computer. Here I would spend hours every day composing narratives, poems, and works of fiction. I would play with various styles of writing, and take online writing workshops. I would read here too, sampling works from writers new and old.
Another room I would visit daily would be the workout room. I imagine a treadmill, weights, boxing equipment, plenty of floor space, and other pieces of equipment that I can’t even name. My trainer would be compassionate and motivating, and I would learn to love working out. Naturally there would be a pool too, for my water workouts and general recreation and relaxation.
Finally there would be a tremendous kitchen, complete with fabulous healthy chef/nutritionist/teacher. This wonderperson would teach me the ways of creating delicious meals that will satisfy me and help me on my path to wellness. He/she would also do the meal planning, sous chef work, and cleaning up. Wouldn’t that be nice?
It all sounds fabulous, but totally unrealistic. First of all, I really don’t want a bunch of strangers in my house. Ok, Chris Powell can come over once a week for my training session, but other than that, I value my privacy. If I really did win the lottery, things would look a lot like they already do. First, I would finish out the school year with my students. There would be no reason to abandon them. Next, I might move to a slightly larger, more comfortable home, but it would be far from a mansion. There are three of us in our family. That would be silly.
Things I would do:
1. Put aside college money for my son.
2. Hire him a driving instructor. He’s almost old enough for his permit (just a few weeks away).
3. Hire a trainer. Even if it’s not Chris.
4. Keep writing.
5. Plan a memorable vacation.
6. Think about life after school lets out in May. Would I go back? I might not. I might concentrate on writing.
The lottery is unlikely, but having dreams doesn’t depend on lottery winnings.
I’m sitting up rubbing my eyes, yawning and avoiding bed. Why? The pizza. Yes, I said it, pizza. It’s been a long week. Most of them are, but this week there was the added fun of doing 31 report cards in a whole new way, and oh, by the way, I’m still sniffling and not feeling all that super great. Do you see where this is going? Wah, wah, wah. I know. It’s not pretty, this little pity party of mine, and it gets worse.
It was lovely. It was hot and gooey and had just the right ratio of sauce to toppings. I enjoyed every bite, and there were a lot of bites. UGH. Now it’s late, I’m bloated right down to my fingers and toes, and I dread going to sleep. As the old Alka Seltzer ads used to say, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to plop plop and fizz fizz. Tomorrow is another day, and I will do better.
BulgingButtons 