the rocket's red glare
Thursday.
July FIFTH.
The day after the parade, the pool and the barbecue.
The day spent sitting in a chair, in front of a computer with a pile of work that I am not highly motivated to attack.
The paper cup of foamy milky latte is gone. Empty. Dry as a bone, it’s sustenance sucked away.
Yet my brain isn’t fully functioning. The little gnomes that work in the pinky cubicles up there are not speaking to each other for some reason. Some of them are aimlessly wandering about and they keep bumping into each other and mumbling. And often saying “hunh?” when someone addresses them.
It’s a few hours later. I managed to be rather productive as long as no one expected a fully-formed and coherent sentence out of me. I’ve gulped a few hand-fulls of almonds and chugged some water and even tried my very first pilates class over lunch. Rebecca, the teacher, is lovely and charming with a North Carolina accent that says “here, have a mint julpe and let me hold you to my bosom” but who, in reality, is a raging sadist if she thinks I can do one more of those stomach crunching contortions. Holy shit. Thems is hard. No wonder those famous hollywood types always smile through clinched teeth when being photographed by papparazzi. It’s all become clear now. They are in pilates-induced pain.
I need to make some apologies though. Firstly to the women near me in class, I’m sorry, I had no idea that the same contortions and moves that contract 12 hundred underused muscles would also force air from my rear. I’m very, very sorry you had to hear that. I found it impossible to clinch that one little muscle in addition to all the others. Also, I will go ahead and apologize to our out-of-town guests with whom I shall be running around looking at historical shit with all weekend. There shall be a goodly amount of bitching ensuing. And whining. And possibly some swearing because I know this quaky feeling I have in my legs and stomach, it means muscles that are planning on seizing up on me over night. I may need a walker tomorrow. Seriously.
July FIFTH.
The day after the parade, the pool and the barbecue.
The day spent sitting in a chair, in front of a computer with a pile of work that I am not highly motivated to attack.
The paper cup of foamy milky latte is gone. Empty. Dry as a bone, it’s sustenance sucked away.
Yet my brain isn’t fully functioning. The little gnomes that work in the pinky cubicles up there are not speaking to each other for some reason. Some of them are aimlessly wandering about and they keep bumping into each other and mumbling. And often saying “hunh?” when someone addresses them.
It’s a few hours later. I managed to be rather productive as long as no one expected a fully-formed and coherent sentence out of me. I’ve gulped a few hand-fulls of almonds and chugged some water and even tried my very first pilates class over lunch. Rebecca, the teacher, is lovely and charming with a North Carolina accent that says “here, have a mint julpe and let me hold you to my bosom” but who, in reality, is a raging sadist if she thinks I can do one more of those stomach crunching contortions. Holy shit. Thems is hard. No wonder those famous hollywood types always smile through clinched teeth when being photographed by papparazzi. It’s all become clear now. They are in pilates-induced pain.
I need to make some apologies though. Firstly to the women near me in class, I’m sorry, I had no idea that the same contortions and moves that contract 12 hundred underused muscles would also force air from my rear. I’m very, very sorry you had to hear that. I found it impossible to clinch that one little muscle in addition to all the others. Also, I will go ahead and apologize to our out-of-town guests with whom I shall be running around looking at historical shit with all weekend. There shall be a goodly amount of bitching ensuing. And whining. And possibly some swearing because I know this quaky feeling I have in my legs and stomach, it means muscles that are planning on seizing up on me over night. I may need a walker tomorrow. Seriously.
