Antisocial…

If nothing else, you can always say that I didn’t give in to peer pressure. Not that the pressure was all that significant after someone kindly pointed out that it was beginning to feel a little like Official pressure to paste on a happy face, lay your money down, and partake in the Organization Non-Denominational Holiday Luncheon and Party.

Hey, no one appreciates a swinging good time more than me, but that’s not what you’re likely to find in a room full of your coworkers. It tends to be an opportunity for awkward conversation and the passing illusion of actual community. As it turns out, sitting at the bar and staring out the window at the water doesn’t actually qualify as “participating” in one of these events. Since that’s what I invariably end up doing at the location where these activities are held, taking a pass felt like the least bad of all possible scenarios.

Back when I was young and ambitious I worked for a guy who was quick to say that colleagues “can be friendly, but they can’t be friends.” Aside from a slim few friends I made at the dawn of my career, I find his thought process was spot on. Keeping as sturdy a firewall as you can between your personal and professional lives feels like a critical action item, because either one bleeding into the other is never going to end well.

Or maybe I’m just antisocial. That’s also a distinct possibility.

Particularly lame…

Mondays are bad enough without assistance. It’s the day of the week when you have to do the most moderation of the standard weekend attitude of doing what you want, when you want. That one has always given me trouble, even under the best of circumstances. When it comes to feeling like I had a big plate of jagged glass for dinner, it’s safe to assume that rules out this being one of those “best circumstance” kind of days. Mostly that translates into feeling pretty surly… or maybe just more surly than usual. That would really depend on your perspective, but that’s not the point.

The point is I’ve spent the last thirteen hours trying to figure out what to swallow that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to rip open my throat from the inside. So far the losers in this contest have been coffee, a turkey sandwich, pretzels, water, and spaghetti. Plus, I’ve spent the last eight hours feeling like I need to sneeze. Eight hours. It would be ok if there were an actual sneeze to go with that feeling – you know at least some momentary feeling of relief or that something is getting accomplished, but no, that’s clearly out of the question.

So instead of doing anything more productive than heating up leftovers and blogging, here I sit, sipping hot tea with lemon and honey (the only thing I’ve found so far that doesn’t hurt to swallow) and feeling like I need to sneeze. Even for a Monday night, this one feels particularly lame. If anyone needs me, I’ll be over here nursing a sore throat and not sneezing.

Lame…

It’s good to start the weekend with a closet full of freshly laundered clothes. The fact that laundering those clothes is what I’ve done so far on my Friday night is pretty lame. It would possibly be forgivable if I were going to change into some of those cleaned clothes and go do something interesting, but what’s really going to happen is I’m going to hit the couch with my iPad and read until I can’t keep my eyes open. Then I’ll take the dogs out and go to bed. Probably around 10:00. Yeah. Lame. But I’ll bounce out of bed at 6:45 tomorrow morning feeling rested and reasonably well put together… Which in retrospect is probably also a cause for concern. Although since that’s sleeping in by almost two hours, maybe it’s not so bad, right? Right? *insert cricket chirps*

Taking the high road…

I’m going to make the adult decision and not chase after glittery temptation for once. Just this once and just to see how that works out. What would 21 year old me think? He’d call me a derivation of “feline” and shake his head in disgust before walking up the hill for beer by the quart at Hi-Way Pizza. That’s what he’d do. Twenty five year old me would probably already be at the Green Door or Brass Rail passing the latest County gossip and talking shit. But while they’re doing that, 32 year old me will be getting what passes lately for a good nights sleep and not be nursing a hangover during that early morning meeting with the bosses.

Lame.

All plans made herein are non-refundable and subject to change without notice.