I’ve got this. It took me a couple weeks, but I finally wrangled this dismal situation into submission like a cowboy gets a cow to submit. That actually sounds a little kinky, but this is no time to judge cows.
Back to my story. Yesterday, I had my best day yet of “Days ending in Y” as I’m calling this plague that has gripped the globe, but especially, my mental health. I was up by 7 a.m. I was dressed. I did yoga. I listened to the news for only the length of time it took to find out we’re all still totally fucked. I worked. I went on a walk. I put on a mask. I went to the grocery store. I picked up materials for one client and dropped off materials somewhere else. I threw the ball for the dog and cracked a beer, right on time, at precisely beer-thirty (a moving target in this house that’s none of your business).
In other words, I was en fuoco. And then, as I bent over to pick up the ball one last time, I glanced at the hem of my yoga pants.
“Hmmm,” I said to myself. “That seems….oh shit.”
I lifted up my shirt, which hit at about hip level. No pockets. This was bad, because these particular yoga pants definitely have pockets, of that I was sure. Which meant…I was wearing the pants inside out. All day (see above list), everywhere I went.
I trudged into the house to see what I could see. I decided to take a shower and shake off the feeling of being the fourth stooge and just concentrate on getting cleaned up for dinner. One minute into that endeavor I realized I had already taken a shower that day—right before heading out for errands in my inside-out pants.
The good news is that this is the “old me,” as I wrote about recently.
So I guess that means things are actually getting back to normal around here.