Hard Day's Day
I'm having a rough day.
I don't know how these days happen but they do. They're the type of days when I say things like, "I wish someone would come into my office and beat me with a baseball bat." Or while I'm commuting: "Now I understand why people kill each other." But today is the baseball bat day. There's something getting me down here in my office and I can't quite put my finger on it. Is it the repeats I have to scavenge around for? The amount of paper cluttering every inch of my desk, floor, and air conditioner top? Is it the fantastic fanfiction I've been reading via my Rumor while on the LIRR that reminds me of how much of a failure I am at creativity? I'm not sure but someone really needs to get the Louisville Slugger.
And poor Steve calls at the wrong time (actually it's the right time according to my phone/his work schedule ). I'm in the midst of racing thoughts, trying to figure out what's eating me, and his cheery voice is amplifying the idea that I'm miserable. I tell him about the baseball bat and he simply sighs. He doesn't worry about me trying to hurt myself. There's the occasional back pinch here and a leg punch there but really, I've grown out of the whole self-mutilation kit years ago. Instead I verbalize hurting oneself in a joking matter and I feel I can, I've earned that right. And surprisingly, though making everyone else uncomfortable, it makes me laugh. It's sick but I paid enough co-pays to get to do this.
So Steve decides to end the conversation early on into his ten minute break and I go back to charts charts charts! I don't really hate my job because it pays well and I have Daniella in my office for half the week to laugh with but today I'm just off I guess. But only at The Surge. I even try to get annoyed at the smelly guy that insists upon sitting in the middle seat even though there are plenty open when I'm heading back home on the train but I can't. I'm even pleasant to him and his friend when I have to get out at my station and they have to move into the aisle. I even share a smile with the friend so I conclude it must have been work though I really could have done without the day-old garlic smell of the passenger on my right.
As I climb out of my car an exhausted looking Steve comes strolling down the path. It's a nice surprise to see him before entering the apartment. He's coming out to get the mail and then walks me inside. I inform him of the dire need for the bathroom but he suggests I go sit on the bed.
Go sit on the bed?
This request doesn't even make sense. From the kitchen I see the bed is made and I praise Steve for it. Then I question if he did some cleaning and why didn't he wait for me to help and-
I pause in the doorway. The bed is made alright, even the sheet is folded down and tucked in the way I like it! But my attention rests on the TV tray by my side of the bed. There's a vase full of sunflowers with different colored carnations interspersed between them. I smile. Sometimes I forget how we used to be, the silly water bottle game, the month anniversary handmade presents, the endless puzzle-making. We've been caught up lately in overtime hours and pleasing everyone else that we’ve forgotten that it really should be All About Us.
As I caress one of the sunflowers he tells me that he made the bouquet himself and is so pleased that it came out the way he wanted it to and that I like it. He then quickly dashes around the bed telling me sit down and wait. I sit. I wait. He turns on his alarm clock cd player and Fuel's Bad Day begins to play through the little speakers. And all I do is laugh. He jumps on the bed and laughs with me telling me he how he just wanted to see me smile though my theme song added a little extra touch to the mood.
Sitting there on the Dean Miller comforter with him I realize how lucky I am. I may not have done anything with my degree and I may never have a great career but I have Steve. I have him to come home to every day. I have the best thing in the world sitting here Indian style in front of me, with disheveled hair and three days worth of stubble. I love this man, and not the Surge or anyone else can ruin that for me.
I don't know how these days happen but they do. They're the type of days when I say things like, "I wish someone would come into my office and beat me with a baseball bat." Or while I'm commuting: "Now I understand why people kill each other." But today is the baseball bat day. There's something getting me down here in my office and I can't quite put my finger on it. Is it the repeats I have to scavenge around for? The amount of paper cluttering every inch of my desk, floor, and air conditioner top? Is it the fantastic fanfiction I've been reading via my Rumor while on the LIRR that reminds me of how much of a failure I am at creativity? I'm not sure but someone really needs to get the Louisville Slugger.
And poor Steve calls at the wrong time (actually it's the right time according to my phone/his work schedule ). I'm in the midst of racing thoughts, trying to figure out what's eating me, and his cheery voice is amplifying the idea that I'm miserable. I tell him about the baseball bat and he simply sighs. He doesn't worry about me trying to hurt myself. There's the occasional back pinch here and a leg punch there but really, I've grown out of the whole self-mutilation kit years ago. Instead I verbalize hurting oneself in a joking matter and I feel I can, I've earned that right. And surprisingly, though making everyone else uncomfortable, it makes me laugh. It's sick but I paid enough co-pays to get to do this.
So Steve decides to end the conversation early on into his ten minute break and I go back to charts charts charts! I don't really hate my job because it pays well and I have Daniella in my office for half the week to laugh with but today I'm just off I guess. But only at The Surge. I even try to get annoyed at the smelly guy that insists upon sitting in the middle seat even though there are plenty open when I'm heading back home on the train but I can't. I'm even pleasant to him and his friend when I have to get out at my station and they have to move into the aisle. I even share a smile with the friend so I conclude it must have been work though I really could have done without the day-old garlic smell of the passenger on my right.
As I climb out of my car an exhausted looking Steve comes strolling down the path. It's a nice surprise to see him before entering the apartment. He's coming out to get the mail and then walks me inside. I inform him of the dire need for the bathroom but he suggests I go sit on the bed.
Go sit on the bed?
This request doesn't even make sense. From the kitchen I see the bed is made and I praise Steve for it. Then I question if he did some cleaning and why didn't he wait for me to help and-
I pause in the doorway. The bed is made alright, even the sheet is folded down and tucked in the way I like it! But my attention rests on the TV tray by my side of the bed. There's a vase full of sunflowers with different colored carnations interspersed between them. I smile. Sometimes I forget how we used to be, the silly water bottle game, the month anniversary handmade presents, the endless puzzle-making. We've been caught up lately in overtime hours and pleasing everyone else that we’ve forgotten that it really should be All About Us.
As I caress one of the sunflowers he tells me that he made the bouquet himself and is so pleased that it came out the way he wanted it to and that I like it. He then quickly dashes around the bed telling me sit down and wait. I sit. I wait. He turns on his alarm clock cd player and Fuel's Bad Day begins to play through the little speakers. And all I do is laugh. He jumps on the bed and laughs with me telling me he how he just wanted to see me smile though my theme song added a little extra touch to the mood.
Sitting there on the Dean Miller comforter with him I realize how lucky I am. I may not have done anything with my degree and I may never have a great career but I have Steve. I have him to come home to every day. I have the best thing in the world sitting here Indian style in front of me, with disheveled hair and three days worth of stubble. I love this man, and not the Surge or anyone else can ruin that for me.