The Little Things Mean a Lot

Let it be noted that at 9:00 PM on Sunday, I toyed with the idea of calling in for a Monday sub just 'cause I felt like I needed "a day". I didn't do it. But the pile of little things that grew into a big stack of baggage on my shoulders after that made me wish - over and over again - that I had.

Sunday, 9:45 PM, Thing #1 appears:  According to the Self magazine online quiz, I am overweight. Only by three pounds, mind you, but still. Ouch.

Monday, 6:00 AM, Thing #2 rears its ugly head:  In a fit of industriousness, I moved the fridge and cleaned under it Sunday afternoon. Felt fine at the time, but this morning the folly of my actions became evident. Large doses of Tylenol were required. And I mean kidney-damagingly large.

Monday, 7:02 AM, Here comes thing #3, Folks: I nearly ran over my neighbor and his dog as I pulled out of the driveway this morning. I was looking down the street for oncoming cars instead of directly behind me, which is where they were. Now I feel dumb. And potentially dangerous. Worst part: He's one of those chatty older guys who will probably go all paternal and use the tone on me next time our paths cross. And I'll have to fake maturity and comfort while politely acknowledging my mistake. I suck at that. (Granted, it would be worse to confront a jury of my peers had I actually run the guy over, but that's not really my point here.)

Monday, 11:55 AM, Ladies and Gentlemen, meet thing #4:  My para is in Vegas for the week, and her sub is about 150 years old. I'm in no mood to talk to anyone, which explains my day's lesson plan, but feel enormous pressure to entertain this woman. Unfortunately, I got plenty 'o nothin', so the hour ends with me feeling like a bad hostess. I didn't even offer her a beverage. And she's coming back tomorrow. 

Monday, 1:48 PM, A priest, a rabbi, and thing #5 walk into a bar:  A colleague made a crack about how I don't understand the importance of schlepping my kid to the Sears Portrait Studio every three months because I adopted a toddler. "Oh, well, when they're BABIES, they change so fast." Yes, I never had the baby experience - doesn't mean I'm not a real mom. Doesn't mean my child doesn't grow and change in amazing ways every day. And maybe I wouldn't have chosen to buy into the portraiture cult in any case, since I think they're overpriced and unnecessary. And kinda tacky. Of course, I say none of this. I grin. I bear it. I curse my parents for raising me to be so damed polite.

Monday, 2:11 PM, Wow, thing #6 sure got here in a hurry: I can't even write the details here, but, those of you who know me, ask me about it in person. Use the code word darkness to ask. I will look around furtively to see if the coast's clear before I divulge the information. It involves another colleague. And it's both infuriating and AWK-ward!

Monday, 3:44 PM, And then there's thing #7: I'm driving home in a complete funk. It's cloudy and grey for the fifteenth day in a row. I am fat, crabby, and a bit misanthropic, so I decide to turn on the radio. There he is: Beck, and he's singing just for me, "In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey ...." I brace myself for the inevitable lyrics, "Sooooy un perdedor. I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?" I decide to smile and sing along. Real loud-like.