Bluesday

It’s Tuesday, and you know what that means?

Absolutely nothing.

My house is cluttered; my suitcase is not yet fully unpacked from the last time I travelled; I haven’t yet sent out laundry; the dry cleaner didn’t even bother trying to remove the stain from where I dropped tea on my white linen trousers (this irritated me to no end because they pressed the stain into the fabric); my office looks like all of my files projectile vomited their contents upon my desk.

I feel overwhelmed by…Stuff.  Paper.  My closet.

All of this found me, last night, ignoring the obvious and rushing out of the office for a brutal workout, because with sweat comes my infamous laser focus.  Then I worked from home for the rest of the night.  At some point in the evening, I began pouring myself what was probably too many glasses of Sauvignon blanc (I’m like the Ramona Singer of Sauvignon blanc…), and watching action movies out of the corner of my eye (with eyes just like Ramona’s)

*Shudder*

Remind me never to switch to Pinot griggio.

This morning, when the alarm sounded at the usual 5:00, I reached over, snoozed it, grabbed my iPhone, cancelled my Bikram appointment, and opened the dog crate, since Roo was rattling to be walked.  I’ve arranged my bed so that I was able to effect that entire transaction without lifting my head.  And while I knew the dog had to go out, I instead hoisted all 40lbs of him on to the bed and snoozed for another 90 minutes.

(The dog’s bladder can be bribed with a snuggle on the Big Bed.)

I normally only allow Roo up onto the foot of my bed on weekends, when I go through my routine of drinking tea and reading the Weekend Wall St journal in bed with my dog at my feet (doesn’t that sound utterly lovely?  It is.  This is why I don’t have a significant other, or a spouse, or kids…because nobody messes that up for me.)

Eventually, I got up to shower, and the dog continued his snuggle, solo, forgetting entirely that, at 5:00, he’d said he needed to go out.

How great would it be to be my dog?!

Speaking of great…

Even on mildly blue and frustrated days — when things are messy, and the paperwork is flying, and laundry is undone — I am grateful for how good I feel.  Though, lately, I feel a lot of pressure not to mention that I do occasionally feel blue.  Frustrated.  Human.  I feel pressure to Instagram my life; create some sepia-toned, falsely-nostalgic, fairytale.

Guess what?  My life is airports, and dog hair, and hitting the snooze-button.  Swoonworthy nights under foreign stars; delicious bottles of wine; laughter that seems like it will never end; work that never seems to stop.

Can women have it all?

Absolutely.  And with it, comes the consequences.  Which, sometimes, means a Bluesday.  Not sanded-off corners, and unfocused filters.  Just a little blue.

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