Warning: This is a straight-up vent session.
I know it’s probably bad form to jump back in after several patchy weeks with a whiny rant, but I have a bad case of the Tuesdays and so that’s what you’re getting. Sorry. Back to regularly-scheduled sunshine programming as usual tomorrow, I promise.
I am, as I’ve mentioned in the past (and as anyone who follows me on Snapchat knows), a terrible sleeper. Most nights I’m awake a couple times a night, but can get back to sleep without too much angst. Some nights though, like last night, it’s multiple full-on wakeups and takes me close to an hour to get back to sleep. Basically your standard “Princess and the Pea” scenario, minus the frozen vegetables. Last night, I went to bed at 10, was up at midnight for a solid 20 minutes, and woke up at 3 for close to 45. It got so bad that I actually got up and went and sat out in my living room for a few minutes just to break up the tossing and turning. (Also, the moon was really pretty.) I think the problem is that I stress myself out so much about how the heck I’m going to fall back asleep that it just makes everything worse.
So after my little late-night prowling, my alarm went off at 5:30 and I snoozed. And snoozed. And snoozed until it was 6:15, and that’s bad-news bears because I leave for work at 6:40 and I had done nothing to get ready. So I speed-showered and put on bare-minimum makeup and defaulted to my standard-all-black part of the closet just hoping something would match, and it was fine, whatever, I was going to be a few minutes late but I could deal.
I started my coffee and went back into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and when I came out two minutes later, ready to transfer the coffee to my Thermos and go, I realized I had never put the cup under my Keurig. There were 16 ounces of coffee flooded across my counter and dripping across the front of my dishwasher, soaking into my kitchen rug and covering the floor around my refrigerator in a lake of pure caffeinated misery. And I could genuinely feel the tiny bit of resolve and pride in saving my morning metaphorically crumble to dust inside me at that moment. I pounded through half a roll of paper towels and a crap-ton of carpet cleaner trying to salvage the rug, made a second cup of coffee (cup under Keurig: check), and raced out the door, now nearly twenty minutes behind schedule.
AND I LEFT THE SECOND CUP OF COFFEE AND MY LUNCH ON THE COUNTER.
So I did what every rational, well-rested, functional adult does: burst into completely childish, hysterical tears, turned around and got my coffee ugly-crying the whole way, and went to work half an hour late, with that ultimate red-eye combination of tears and sleep deprivation. You better bet that my thermos was death-grip clutched in my crazy-person claw-hands, too. At any rate, as I stomped and sulked the half-mile from my ramp to the office, I officially decided that I am deep in the throes of THE TUESDAYS.
I hate Tuesdays. They’ve never been my friend, they always make me kind of cranky and kind of manic and a little bit extra-stressed even when life isn’t that stressful. And lately, life has been stressful. Details to follow (soon), but between some personal stressors and some changes at work, I’ve been stretching myself a bit thin. In classic Lizzie form, I’m spending way too much time letting my inner type-A control freak spazmonster over-analyze every choice I make and every situation I find myself in, to my detriment. And this morning, it probably wasn’t even really about the coffee, it was about the seventeen other things that are making me feel uncertain and out of control and just plain not fully adult, and the coffee just happened to be the catalyst/straw that broke this camel’s back/lightning rod for all those other feelings.
I’m at work now, and in classic actually-sane-Lizzie-fashion, determined that life is good. So my rug smells like caramel coffee. So my hair is twisted up wet on top of my head. So I basically cried off the minimal mascara I even bothered to put on. Whatever, Tuesday. Nowhere to go from here but up, you butthead.