It has been one of those weeks. Actually, it has been two of those
weeks. Friday can't come soon
enough. Thank god it's finally here.
By Thursday, I've just about had enough. No, really.
I already lamented about last week, which involved a broken tooth and a
fender-bender. This week has involved
really strenuous and ridiculous meetings at work -- some people think they're
incredibly self-important, which would be okay if they actually had their heads
out of their own asses and their feet out of mine.
So Thursday becomes pizza afternoon. I buy myself a pizza on the way home: small
pizza; half Hawaiian, half pepper and onion.
I am in the door a total of about eight seconds when I tear into the
pizza (okay, maybe 40 seconds because I stop to wash and dry my hands) and
crack open a beer. My last beer. My last icy cold, extremely refreshing beer.
It's 3:25. I have
been out of work for less than forty-five minutes.
Lest you think I'm an alcoholic, I can assure you I'm
not. At this point, the pizza and (last)
beer are the only things preventing me from needing medication. Between the minutiae (I know, I know what
you're thinking … "Damn, she really loves
that word!") of my work life and my life as a way-too-old grad student and
my family life, this has been a week for bashing my head against cement walls
and errant cinder blocks.
To top it off, Thursday morning my foot woke me up. That's right, you read that correctly: my foot.
I woke up feeling like my right foot was twisted into a circle, like my
toes were reaching around and touching my heel.
At first I thought it was a cramp.
I have some nerve damage in both of my feet because I was a walking
train wreck as a kid and because middle age sucks. I bolted out of bed at 4:30 a.m. and attempted
to work the cramp out of my foot only to realize that it's not really a cramp;
it's more like a dull ache with occasional crescendos of searing agony.
Pissah. Wicked
frikkin' pissah.
I wear the most comfortable sneakers I own to work, yet the
pain I felt first thing in the morning is still persisting. Luckily I am teaching a lesson that only
requires me to walk the room for about fifteen minutes each class. It doesn't help, and by the time I leave work
hours later, it feels like my arch is having labor pains. This totally blows because it's my driving
foot, the foot I had reconstructed a few years ago. As I hobble from the door to my car
(honestly, it's not making me limp, but it is making me wince), I decide I've
earned a break. I take out my phone, and
I dial … pizza.
I dial the pizza place right down the street from my
house. I earned it. I deserve it.
Twenty minutes later. After fighting traffic, being stuck behind a slow
18-wheeler, getting stuck at two traffic lights (while zipping through
another), I pull up in front of the pizzeria.
Sure, I could walk. The place is
1/10th of a mile from my door, but my foot hurts. Remember?
Ahhhh, pizza.
It takes me less than sixty seconds to drive home with it,
back into the driveway with it, and get the box into the house.
As I'm eating this pizza, alternating between the ham and
pineapple side and the veggie side, I realize I'm thirsty. What goes with pizza better than beer? Nothing.
So, kids, this is why at 3:30 in the afternoon I am eating
pizza and beer. This is why at 5:00 on a
Friday morning, I am relieved it is, indeed, Friday morning. In a mere forty-plus hours, it will be Next
Week. Next week should be better. It might be better.
It probably shouldn't be worse, though. I still have some pizza left, but I'm out of
beer.
