The good news is, since I moved in here, my credit score has gone up 58 points. Fifty-eight points, dudes! My car is paid off, and two of my three credit cards are at zero. So that's a plus.
On the other hand, I'm a year older with nothing to show for it but four pets and some disturbing hips. Seriously. When did these things just spread out and start enjoying themselves? It's like they said, "That organ is driving me crazy. Let's go out and stretch our legs."
It's probably not helping that I haven't worked out since September 12, when all the shit hit the fan. What's today? The 24th? Good lord. That's not much time. I have lots of agony before me. Spread out before me. Like my hips.
Today is a rainy, dark kind of a day. The huge tree outside my window is just starting to change colors.
I'd been looking forward to watching it get all brilliant and pretty when I came in here every day to write. I will have lived here just exactly one year, to the day, when I go. I have to keep reminding myself, year abroad. It was a year abroad. You were abroad.
Like my hips.
I lived for one summer in London, when I was 25, and I lived during that time in a room, one single room, with two other women. How we didn't kill each other is a mystery. We had the only room with a balcony, and we were in the corner, so score. I know they got annoyed with me because I found at a flea market this little ankle bracelet made entirely of these teensy Indian bells, so when I got up in the morning I'd CHING down from my bunk bed and CHING down to the shower. I'd also CHING around really early a few days a week to put on running clothes then CHING! back to our room and in general they wanted to ching me into a river.
The point is, I think fondly of that room I lived in. Maybe I'll be able to think of my year in this house as a fond memory one day, and not something that rips out my innards. The good news is, it's not on my way to or from anywhere, so I won't have to pass it unless I feel particularly stalky one day. There's one stretch of busy road that if I crane my neck and get into an accident, I can see down to this house, but I plan to wear horse blinders and a dog cone when I drive down that road.
Is this Friday? Maybe I'll see if my coworkers want to go out for an ironically named happy hour. Drown your sorrows hour. My happy hour of need. Maybe we can go somewhere really dumb for happy hour and that will cheer me. Because what's more cheerful than being in a room full of people half your age and you're drunk at 5:45?
Still. Maybe I'll go. My coworkers usually cheer me. Those youthful motherfuckers. Now no one will go, because I called them youthful motherfuckers. Don't any of them have any hot dads in a midlife crisis or anything? Nothing cures your midlife crisis than a 50-year-0ld. Hot.
How long to I get to be cranky like this before you're all over me? Are you over me now? Is it like June Eeyore Gardens wrote this? I had an old boyfriend, back in like 1987, who once we hit our rough patch would call my answering machine and sigh dramatically and we called him Eeyore. My roommate Sandy and I would fall over dead laughing at his tortured messages.
"Hi. [sigh] You're not home again. [sigh] I don't, I can't even...[sigh] I guess I'll call you later."
Oh my god, we LOVED that. He eventually slept with his coworker. Sigh.
I guess I can't really blame him for the coworker thing, now that I've just spelled that relationship out on the page as I have. Oooo, I'd FORGOTTEN this part. I was in his room once and found PICTURES of her in his BED, all mussed up, and we weren't broken up yet. Oh, I was mad. He made some lame excuse and I believed him. Now I'm mad all over again. Someone's getting a terse note on Facebook today.
Okay, I'm going to work. [sigh] I guess you guys aren't home AGAIN. [sigh]