I woke up late. Cursed the sun. And rolled over.
That's right, I decided not to get out of bed yesterday. Not for the entire day, just long enough to consider the possibility that I could lay there for eternity, gain 500 pounds, and be interviewed via satellite by Tyra Banks in five years. Maximum time wasted: 30 minutes. My anxiety about being on a second-class talk show and becoming a lazy piece of shit forced me to put my feet on the cold hardwood floor and face the day. Being cold first thing in the morning is such a horrible feeling. Yesterday, the cold floor didn't seem to affect me as much as it normally would because I was feeling unusually cold inside already.
I decided to "work from home." At first I did begin doing work, but then slowly began checking my email, then surfing the Internet, browsing the latest BR items, and then landed on my default coping skill. Spending money. Considering my small financial crisis I had to choose something justifiable. In the end all of my spending is somehow justifiable, but you know what I mean. After tossing a number of ideas around I landed on getting a haircut.
I considered returning to the salon I had been previously, but remembered how awful I felt upon leaving. Reeling in the consequence of running into someone who was the result of an unknown number of Miller Lites and an equally unknown number of shots. It was not the engagement in adventures of lowered inhibitions that spun me, but finding out this certain someone was married and had shared our adventures with other stylists at the salon. I had reservations about making an appointment under the name, "Tawdry Whore."
I made an appointment at the training institute of an upscale salon hoping that I could get an appointment last minute and that I would not lose an ear in the process. In the end, I saved money and got a fantastic haircut from an equally fantastic 19-year-old stylist with hopes and dreams of making it huge in the Big City. She was adorable; mostly she was endearing because she had no judgements about me or the likelihood that I would drink like fish and screw her boyfriend when she wasn't looking.
I felt better. I felt renewed. I felt lighter. I felt foolish.
I guess it is called retail therapy for a reason; paying someone to help you feel better. Perhaps next time I should skip the middle man and just pay people to tell me my hair looks great. Or I could keep the money, get out of bed, go to work, allow myself to feel like shit, and quit sleeping with people's husbands.
Bottom line: my hair looks great. It is the head that it is attached to that needs work.
That's right, I decided not to get out of bed yesterday. Not for the entire day, just long enough to consider the possibility that I could lay there for eternity, gain 500 pounds, and be interviewed via satellite by Tyra Banks in five years. Maximum time wasted: 30 minutes. My anxiety about being on a second-class talk show and becoming a lazy piece of shit forced me to put my feet on the cold hardwood floor and face the day. Being cold first thing in the morning is such a horrible feeling. Yesterday, the cold floor didn't seem to affect me as much as it normally would because I was feeling unusually cold inside already.
I decided to "work from home." At first I did begin doing work, but then slowly began checking my email, then surfing the Internet, browsing the latest BR items, and then landed on my default coping skill. Spending money. Considering my small financial crisis I had to choose something justifiable. In the end all of my spending is somehow justifiable, but you know what I mean. After tossing a number of ideas around I landed on getting a haircut.
I considered returning to the salon I had been previously, but remembered how awful I felt upon leaving. Reeling in the consequence of running into someone who was the result of an unknown number of Miller Lites and an equally unknown number of shots. It was not the engagement in adventures of lowered inhibitions that spun me, but finding out this certain someone was married and had shared our adventures with other stylists at the salon. I had reservations about making an appointment under the name, "Tawdry Whore."
I made an appointment at the training institute of an upscale salon hoping that I could get an appointment last minute and that I would not lose an ear in the process. In the end, I saved money and got a fantastic haircut from an equally fantastic 19-year-old stylist with hopes and dreams of making it huge in the Big City. She was adorable; mostly she was endearing because she had no judgements about me or the likelihood that I would drink like fish and screw her boyfriend when she wasn't looking.I felt better. I felt renewed. I felt lighter. I felt foolish.
I guess it is called retail therapy for a reason; paying someone to help you feel better. Perhaps next time I should skip the middle man and just pay people to tell me my hair looks great. Or I could keep the money, get out of bed, go to work, allow myself to feel like shit, and quit sleeping with people's husbands.
Bottom line: my hair looks great. It is the head that it is attached to that needs work.
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