Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Sometimes my life runs in slow motion: weeks go by where I am blessed with no real work, or at least work on no schedule. The next few weeks are not those weeks.
Today, though, was a mighty fine day prefacing a busy set of weeks. I woke up ultra-early, ran to the office to sign payroll checks (which I ended up NOT having to do because I presigned them last week, oops), cooked breakfast that I forgot to eat, hauled ass downtown to meet with a client's friend's client (long story) to pitch some ideas, talked on the phone with a friend (15 minutes), and motivated myself to contemplate exercise starting in July.
I like working out, I just hate working out. It's so much fun except that it sucks. It's something I have no need for, but really need to do it. I probably should get a membership to a gym, after I cancel the membership I already am paying for. You get it.
Lately, I've been blessed with the desire to walk more. Walking is GOOD for me. My body doesn't need exercise to get really tone (abs, pecs, glutes, and quads tighten up very nicely on their own). So a day of walking in downtown Chicago sounded good.
A newfound friend put out a request to a group of friends to meet her for a late lunch. I'm a big fan of the late lunch, seeing as that I eat 5-6 times a day, separated by 3 hours time segments. 2pm is PERFECT for me: the restaurants are quiet, the food comes out fresher and warmer, I can be way more discrete by not bumping into 700 Joes and Janes who I can't recall meeting, and I can focus way more on the person in front of me than even my super-attentive soul-digging-stare usually offers.
So I confirmed a 2pm lunch "date" (sidenote: what the hell word is appropriate here?) with the gal, wandered my way to the restaurant, and had a few nice conversations with store-owners along the way.
Lunch: awesome burgers for both of us, Bearnaise sauce, asparagi (is that plural?), side of fries, no bacon. I forgot the damn bacon.
Conversation was humorous: I did more talking than usual, but I fully blame it on the caffeine I overdosed on as I walked the city. 2 cups of triple-espressos was a BAD FUCKING IDEA. Sorry, fair friend, for my blabbering. I think I should hand friends and others little caffeine test strips and have them make me pee on them. "Nope, it turned ultra-violet, I can't hang out with you." Gah.
We ate, her with a beer and me with a cocktail (a LARGE cocktail, thank you Karin, our server). Discussions in the short 1.25 hour lunch covered the gamut, including a remark about how I think I met a supermodel who had the name Pantone 468. We laughed. I swooned for a partial second at an amazing save for a huge chunk of burger (note to my female just-friends out there: if you save food from destruction, you have a 15% chance of getting laid). Also note: if you don't save food that stumbles away, I will and you will NEVER get laid. So for most of you, this means let it fall to the floor if possible, and when I grab it, you can feel safe with me. And grossed out when I dive head-first towards a piece of meat on a dirty restaurant floor. Win, win!
As 3pm came and went, we both checked our phones knowing the inevitable was happening: she was late for work, and I was late for non-work. We walked to her office building, had a good sideways hug as I kept momentum moving away from the door (note: I can jab for hours near your exit door if I don't want you to go, so I face away on purpose). I went to Water Tower and tried my hardest to purchase some underwear. FAIL.
I had an earlier swoon over the not-so-graceful food-saving at lunch, and a second one over the absolutely freakish identical twin of Ally Mac Tyana, my favorite french ex-porn star/actress. I think I tripped over my third foot or something. She noticed, smiled, and went on her way. A smile is not enough of a sign for me to dive in and say hi, so I let her pass and continued my search for the Perfect Pair of Boxers (PPoBs). FAIL FAIL.
And then it hits me: I love meat. I start singing a stupid song, loudly, as I venture into Bloomingdales. "I loOooove meat, it's so sweet, a nice treat. Give mmeEeeeee meat, on the street, hold the wheat." And, yes, people noticed. And heard me. One gal laughed, so I said "I have Tourrette's" to which she laughed more. My stupid songs should be kept in my head, but I was in a good mood, damn it, and I like to sign off key.
Bloomies was a super fail, since all the underwear they had seemed to be American sized, i.e. XXXXXXL. That's 7 FAILs: one for each X, and one for the L. I think they should make a section called H: HUGE. So I leave, chagrined and underwearless, except for the pair I'm wearing.
I left, walked downtown some more, and hiked back to my humble abode. Then I showered and fell asleep for a bit. I am oh-so-cool Mr. Old Man Napper at 8pm. I am leaving for my first trip of a half-dozen tomorrow, but the nap? Come on, I can do better than this! I guess 5 days in a row of 3 hour sleepfests probably took its toll.
I'm feeling like I need a bedmate, and soon. Sex, no sex, who cares. She'll put on some nice clothes, I'll take them off, and we'll sit in the sack and play tic-tac-toe or "I'm thinking of something green, something greeeeeen." Or have sex. Either way.
It was a good day. Good days always take my happy mood and make me happier. I wish some of this happy would rub off on the unhappy souls out there. I want a Sane Happiness Pandemic listed on CNN. I want to be a fountain of contagion of The Happy. Maybe I should fart more in public and force a blush.
That'll make you smile. Admit it.