Odds & Ends #20: The Stupid Things I Say Edition
The other day I found myself telling a friend, “You know what the worst thing is? Getting one of those oranges that peels off in little chunks instead of strips.”
And then I thought, what a stupid thing to say. I say a lot of silly things.
“You know what would make me so happy? Getting a parking spot on the lower level of the parking garage at work.” ~ Because I like to set the bar low for joy, apparently.
“Parsnip bisque? Who in the world would eat (or serve) parsnip soup?” ~ Complaining about the menu at our cafeteria at work. I’ve eaten government cheese sandwiches for dinner in my lifetime. At the time, I would have gladly eaten the food they serve in the cafe.
“I heard she slept her way to the top.” ~ Gossiping about the celebrity du jour the other day.
Fortunately, there’s a saying out there in Internetland attributed to Graham Cooke: “When God called you, He already factored in your stupidity.” I’m so glad none of this [waving arms, encompassing all my life] depends on me to get me over the finish line.
It’s Australian Open time, otherwise known as “My Reason for Living in January” time. AKA, Up All Night season for ol’ Shazzy, who is dragging ass this week. But it’s worth it to watch Djokovic (#7 seed) battle it out. He just turned 37, and it’s obvious. He’s no longer invincible; these journeymen tennis players and up-and-comers are challenging him — and winning often enough. It makes for a nail-biting existence, if you’re me.
I joined a gym on January 3 and have gone once. Change is hard, y’all. I’m self-defeating at this point with my nocturnal tennis watching. After being up most of the night, I’m destroyed by 5 am, I work all day, and then come home to fatigue so thorough I can barely feed my dogs before I’m hitting the sheets to get a little shut-eye before the alarm goes off at 2 am to watch more tennis. I love it, but I’m still fat. Weekend warrior-ing working out only goes so far.
One way I’m considering getting a little more exercise is going back to mowing my own lawn after almost 15 years of giving someone else the pleasure. A year ago, I decided it was getting too expensive, so I switched from a reputable company to a cheaper solution — some guy who drives around with his lawn mower in the back of his truck — and it shows. He might mow my yard one week; he might not the next. He ignores my texts. He leaves the gate open when he mows, which is terrifying to this dog owner who has animals that have access to the back yard.
I have a very bad attitude about mowing my own lawn after all these years. The best thing I can say about it is that, in August, when it’s 400 degrees at 9 am, and I’m pushing a Toro over my half-acre of grass, I’ll burn enough calories to really enjoy my platter of cheese later in the day.
Things are moving apace to getting another exchange student in August. I find I’m excited again, but in a different way: there is no hysteria attached to my excitement. With Melina, I was frantic to get her room set up for her arrival and come up with household rules for a teenager. I wondered if I’d like it and how we’d get along. I still wonder all that with this new student, but it’s tempered with a fair amount of confidence now. I have a huge network of help and a great community of friends, and I know I thrive with someone else in the house, so I’m looking forward to the 25-26 school year — but not the parent pick-up line. I’ve got a solid case of PTSD there.
And finally, the other day I did a little rant on Facebook about being in the midst of year-end performance review time and how it always makes me tweak to have to talk about my performance for the year. As a perfectionist, it’s soul-crushing to be told you don’t measure up. Well, I had my review this week, and I’m solidly riding the bell curve, as usual. I just want to say with a fist pump, “Average performers, UNITE!” I’m over it. If I ever need to feel good about myself, I’ll just write something. I’m told I’m decent at that.
