At 11:30 p.m. on a Friday night, I am ready to get into my
pajamas. There's only one problem. I am still wearing last night's pajamas.
That's right, you read that correctly. Still.
In. My. Jammies.
When I woke up, my intention was to go to the beach, but the
weather didn't cooperate until well after noontime, so I started working on the
spare room again. I've mentioned it
before because I have been working on it, slowly but surely, for the entire
summer. It started with the closet and
morphed into a horror show.
Recently I spent all day long reorganizing the desk and
office supplies and folders and paper, etc.
Before that (but after the closet) I organized all of the books (there
are hundreds). I still have miles to go before
I (sleep --- strangely enough I am not a fan of Robert Frost, but that set-up
was blatant) can consider it a finished product.
In the meantime, I have company coming to stay with me in a
few days. The place needs to be
presentable and safe. But finished? Done?
Completely organized? If that
ever happened, my company would think they'd walked into the wrong place.
Today in addition to working in the spare room, I also moved
a piece of furniture, organized my shoes, worked with the contents of a very
small closet, broke down the recycling into manageable chunks, and sorted more
stuff for work.
I am now sitting down, twisting my spine around and trying
to get comfortable. I just sucked down
two naproxen tablets because my back is screaming at me. I don't even care; it can scream and howl and
rage and cause as much misery as it wants because I got stuff off my To-Do List
today. Not completely, but mostly.
It's time to get into my pajamas… wait. Isn't this where I started? I'm already in my jammies. Last
night's jammies. A light gray little
top and some Patriot's flannel pants (yes, flannel -- the air conditioning was
blasting all night).
I have worked on this place for fourteen hours, and the most
I did to get dressed today is toss a bra on under my camisole in case the
mailman rang the bell. Between my
pajama-clad cleaning mode and the strapless bathing suit I usually wear when
reading outside in the sun, the poor man has gotten more near-miss boob shots
than he might at a strip club.
Time for fresh p.j.'s.
As soon as I wake up tomorrow, I am getting into my bathing suit and
heading to the beach. I don't even care
if it's raining; I need a break from this sudden purging mode. I'll lie down as soon as my bed's cleared off
and my back calms down. Or when I decide
that the couch is an easier option.
Whichever happens first.
