Pulling taffy
To the person who wrote "Man, what is happening to your writing" in the comments page three times (I'm sorry easyspace and yaccs suck), I have this to say:
Dude, I don't know.
I just haven't felt like writing that much lately. Well, that's not entirely true. I've been writing constantly in my journal, mostly detailed accounts of my day - with mundane facts like what size caramel macchiato I had or what the cute Asian guy said to me in the elevator. Basically, my journal looks like it did ten years ago.
My short bout with angsty depression is over. Nothing that a little shopping trip can't cure. There's a new Daffy's in the Financial District and I found not one, not two, but three cute little dresses that I just might not return.
I've always found it easy to recover. In senior year high school I failed a Physics exam and felt that surely, the world was going to end. I locked myself in the girls' bathroom with a compass, not entirely sure what I was planning to do. I mean, I wasn't going to stab myself with it; it was rusty. So I sat on the floor for about half an hour and cried, then I went to the cafeteria and had a chocolate bar, and I was okay. Deep down, we're all drama queens.
That's not to say that what I, or anybody else for that matter, was depressed about was insignificant. It's good to wallow, and at that moment what one feels is genuine and may even be necessary. But life goes on bra.
This week-end, I went to a cousin's cousin's fourteenth birthday. Three years ago, we took JR to see Lord of the Rings. We were late for the screening and didn't have time to get dinner, so we got 11-year-old JR M&M's from the vending machine to tide him over. It turns out he was allergic to peanuts. Now, he is taller and can take care of himself, thank you. At the party, I teased him mercilessly until he finally asked me to dance. I feel like a proud mom.
Tomorrow, I am going to a management training class, probably with a bunch of AVPs and ATs. I'll probably be the youngest in the class, or the only one without a title. There'll be play-acting and case study discussions and lots of group work. Eww. Maybe I won't even make it to the class. I'm terrified I'll come in two minutes late and the door will be locked and I'd have to knock, or maybe I'll take the wrong train or go to the wrong building.
Obla-di, obla-da.
To the person who wrote "Man, what is happening to your writing" in the comments page three times (I'm sorry easyspace and yaccs suck), I have this to say:
Dude, I don't know.
I just haven't felt like writing that much lately. Well, that's not entirely true. I've been writing constantly in my journal, mostly detailed accounts of my day - with mundane facts like what size caramel macchiato I had or what the cute Asian guy said to me in the elevator. Basically, my journal looks like it did ten years ago.
My short bout with angsty depression is over. Nothing that a little shopping trip can't cure. There's a new Daffy's in the Financial District and I found not one, not two, but three cute little dresses that I just might not return.
I've always found it easy to recover. In senior year high school I failed a Physics exam and felt that surely, the world was going to end. I locked myself in the girls' bathroom with a compass, not entirely sure what I was planning to do. I mean, I wasn't going to stab myself with it; it was rusty. So I sat on the floor for about half an hour and cried, then I went to the cafeteria and had a chocolate bar, and I was okay. Deep down, we're all drama queens.
That's not to say that what I, or anybody else for that matter, was depressed about was insignificant. It's good to wallow, and at that moment what one feels is genuine and may even be necessary. But life goes on bra.
This week-end, I went to a cousin's cousin's fourteenth birthday. Three years ago, we took JR to see Lord of the Rings. We were late for the screening and didn't have time to get dinner, so we got 11-year-old JR M&M's from the vending machine to tide him over. It turns out he was allergic to peanuts. Now, he is taller and can take care of himself, thank you. At the party, I teased him mercilessly until he finally asked me to dance. I feel like a proud mom.
Tomorrow, I am going to a management training class, probably with a bunch of AVPs and ATs. I'll probably be the youngest in the class, or the only one without a title. There'll be play-acting and case study discussions and lots of group work. Eww. Maybe I won't even make it to the class. I'm terrified I'll come in two minutes late and the door will be locked and I'd have to knock, or maybe I'll take the wrong train or go to the wrong building.
Obla-di, obla-da.
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