¶ Today when I left for work it was 15 degrees below zero, with a windchill of -36. Schools were closed. Scott’s practice was closed. I have a cold, and have developed a pronounced limp (my Dilettante’s Thigh seems to have worsened). I also had no clean work pants, my work wardrobe being still in the larval stages, and would be braving the elements in tights—sweater tights, but still. “Stay home,” said Scott, “Really. I don’t think you should go.” And yet, I sniffled and limped through my morning ablutions and by 6:05 a.m., I was off. Legal publishing, you see, marches on.
And also? There are no children in my office.
I know. I know! I am the WORST. Look, in my defense, I did have work to do, and I was out on Tuesday because there was no school, so going in was the responsible thing. Those cross reference queries aren’t going to resolve themselves! And I am trying to save my sick days because I know I will need them eventually, children being what they are (a-brim with pestilence), and I am trying to save my vacation days for actual vacations, which I fully intend to start taking now that I have paid vacation days.
I know the novelty of having my own little office out in the world will wear off, and I love my weekends and look forward to them as I haven’t in years and years, but it was with a shocking alacrity that I leapt out the door this morning (understanding that this is a figure of speech, because my Dilettante’s Thigh does not allow for leaping), and I feel guilty about it. Though it should be noted that by lunch time I was ready to be done for the day and heartily regretted choosing work when I could have spent the day at home playing with Simone’s Rainbow Loom and eating sleeve after sleeve of Ritz crackers. Morning Alexa is far more gung-ho about work, in general, than is Afternoon Alexa. Afternoon Alexa is not really gung-ho about anything except the prospect of removing her bra and making herself a champagne cocktail.
¶ Speaking of exercise-related injuries (we were, briefly, in the middle of that last paragraph), every time I cough I clutch at my abdomen like I’ve been shot, so that shouldn’t attract any undue attention in meetings at all!
And as long as we are talking about my latest quest to be built less like an actual brick house, My Fitness Pal is high if it thinks it is sustainable for me to restrict my calories to 1240 per day. Look, “Pal,” I am doing my very best. You are going to have to work with me, here. It doesn’t seem fair that my brutally difficult, if also blessedly short, weight session only nets me an extra 50 or so calories. Does it seem right to you that exercise difficult enough to cause a person to make unfortunate cow noises should be so unrewarded? Do you know what I had for lunch? CHICKPEAS. (They were delicious, but this is hardly the point). Netting just under 1400 calories a day is the best I seem to be capable of, at the moment. I need some small measure of joy in my life, and if you were really my “Pal,” you would understand this.
¶ Last night, apropos of nothing, Simone told us about Slavery. “A long time ago, before Martin Luther King was born, people did Slavery,” she began, solemnly, causing me to choke on a piece of chicken. Scott and I kept making wide eyes at each other over her head (Is this happening? I mouthed at him) as she continued to explain how it worked, more or less (FYI: a mom and dad could have to work for someone else—hmmm…as I type this out it does not sound terribly distinct from our current arrangement, a detail I should probably clarify with her), and then, before we’d gotten our bearings, she’d moved on. We did manage to stammer out a few lame questions and responses, and I think we made it clear that we are definitely NOT fans of slavery, but it was over so quickly! Another teaching moment squandered.