This is what I felt like!
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Today I am grateful that I can pretend I’m writing this tomorrow. I think the only time in recent history when I was this exhausted was after my son’s wedding. I am drop-dead beat!
I didn’t sleep well last night, probably from excitement about today and got up at 6 to catch the 7:30 train to Philly. I haven’t been up at 6 since I quit working two years ago. Not on purpose, anyway. I took my time showering and doing my hair and makeup to perfection, chose the perfect, loose, but funky outfit and away I went.
You know how you get it in your head that you’re going to do something a certain way. . .and so you do. . .and then you wonder if you’ve completely lost your mind? That’s me. I had it in my head that since I wasn’t going to the pool this morning, a nice, brisk, ten block walk from the train station to the hotel, pulling a bag that got as heavy as the bricks I was dragging it over, in 95 degree/200% humidity, would be a good idea. Ha-ha!
When the door opened from the station and I got the blast of pizza-oven hot air, smack in the kisser, I considered taking a cab. Trying not to be a quitter, I thought I’d at least start walking. The air got thicker with every step until I wished I had a machete to cut through it. . .if I’d had the energy to lift it.
By the second block I had to sit and rest in the shade. I wasn’t alone. Melting people were all around me like the living dead in a sci-fi movie! “Hot one,” I wheezed to one woman. “I’m gonna croak,” she could barely speak as she hoofed on. Third block, sit and call John and tell him to take a bus from the station when he comes. Fourth block, sit and fan. Fifth block, look for a cab, except I didn’t think I could hoist the anvil-filled bag into the cab. Sixth block, sit for longer and use the inside of my shirt to sop the sweat off my forehead, like I do in Zumba. Seventh block, pray for an early death and call John to tell him to take a taxi as soon as he steps out of the train station. One of us has to live! Eighth block, hallucinate about the ALS-ice bucket challenge. Ninth block, see someone hosing off their sidewalk and beg them to be merciful and spray my arms before I pass out in the street. They did! Tenth block, drag my sagging, totally drenched, soggy hair, running makeup, cranky attitude into the mercifully cool hotel with ten minutes to spare.
After signing in, I plop myself down in the first chair I can find, fan myself with the conference folder and chat with a woman next to me who looks at me with trepidation. . . like I am mad. . .and I’m not talking angry. When I can move, I drag myself to the ladies room to assess the damage. The funky (and now I mean really funky) outfit is stuck to me like I am a runner-up in a wet T-shirt contest; my hair looks like I just came out of the shower, my bangs are literally dripping causing my mascara to melt into my wrinkles until I look like a map of New Jersey.
That said. . .I’m having a blast. I am so glad I can pretend that I’m writing this tomorrow, because in the words of our dear Scarlett, “Tomorrow is another day!”