I think I'm a well-dressed person most times. But if What Not To Wear ever taped me walking Stuart the dog, I'd be in deep fudge. Nike yoga pants that are too tight, broken flip flops, tragic 5K T-shirt. And hair. The haiiiir. I'm mostly loving my short hair, but in the mornings before I do anything with it, it looks cray, as if the strands and the roots and the cowlicks have all had a punch fight. Like a Nick Nolte mug shot. Jim recently told me I look like Macaulay Culkin, and while that might not be the most romantic thing a gentleman has err said to a lady, there's no denying it's the truth. As a journalist, I must abide.
It fits my current state. I've felt like total crap the past few days. Head, sinuses, stomach, general malaise. I'm pretty sure it's my own fault. The past couple weeks I've gone full steam without a break, subsisting on nothing but Special K bars, coffee and Diet Coke (it CONTAINS water). I tend to do this until my immune system kindly replies with a big "EFF YOU" and then goes to sleep.
After a couple days of rest and a generous helping of vitamin C, water, cheesecake and chocolate chips from the bag, I'm feeling much more energetic and clear. My first instinct is to whip out my novel and start editing, or start a new story, or clean my upstairs bedroom, or go jogging, or do push-ups on the Swiss ball, or go shopping, or self-tan. But this is the kind of behavior that got me sick in the first place. So instead I'm... blogging. "Useless," they all chant on cue! "She's totally daft!"
On top of my more routine self-destructive behavior, I have a long-planned group dinner tonight with ten of my oldest girlfriends (not old as in, like, 78, but old as in, like, I've known them forever).
And the place we are going has a salsa band and sangria. Which means I'll probably have pneumonia by morning and subsequently end up a tragic hospital victim a la Halloween II. Cool.
By the way, did you know the tag line of Halloween II? "MORE OF THE NIGHT HE CAME HOME." Seriously, isn't that pretty lazy? Or maybe they were just going for the direct approach. "More stabbing and whatever, you feel me?"
For your reading plesh, I liked this Atlantic piece about why we writerly types work better in coffee shops. I think all the reasons are true, and there is some sad insight in the final explanation. If you go to a coffee shop with nothing to work on and just sit there for three hours, people assume you are a pedophile looking for a victim. But when you have a laptop, you're a blooming literary genius.
Time to go force rest and fluids upon myself, followed by tapas. See you later, maybe.