saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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It's bloody hard being agnostic these days.
Ah, yes. My favorite time of year. When Mother Nature wakes up late one morning, mutters, “Fucking hell,” gets up in a rush and trips over the end of summer, completely missing autumn, and lands face-down in a pile o’ winter.
It’s delightful.
The freezing cold wind blowing down the collar of my coat. The Ice Patches of Dooooom that conveniently place themselves in various spots across campus, so you never know what calamity (or comedy) each step may bring. The horrible driving conditions. And how much easier it is to waste every last one of my vacation days simply because I don’t want to get out of my nice, warm bed in the morning.
“Hi, Boss o’ Mine? Yeah, I’m not coming in today. Or tomorrow. And probably not next week. Why? Because it’s freezing-ass cold, and I have a magnificent level of wimp in my blood heretofore unseen by the civilized world. Don’t try to fight it. Have a nice day, sucker.”
One whole goddamn chicken, y’all.
This morning, I stopped by a little coffee shack thing that is on my way to the office and picked up my usual eleven-worder (cut down to ten, because if I ordered it iced anymore, my lips would freeze to the straw, and that’s too attractive, even for me). As I paid the man, he said, “So how have you been? What are you up to these days?”
“Work. School. Work. School. Workschoolwork. It’s all a blur.” My standard response.
“Wow,” he said mildly. “And I see you have a child’s car seat in the back there. You really have your hands full. How do you do it?”
Another of my standard responses: “Well, it has to do a lot with the fact that I’m fucking insane. And I really do have to keep busy. If I stop moving, I instantly lose consciousness.”
We all have ways to cope.
I collected my beverage and my change, and drove the rest of the way to work. My office building is surrounded by a theater and several restaurants, so we share a parking garage with the employees for those businesses.
As I got out of my car, I noticed that there was a man arriving for work at the same time. He looked to be in his late fifties. Slightly stooped shoulders. He held the apron of a kitchen worker in one of his hands. When I walked past his car, I saw several snapshots of his family, secured against the dashboard.
I’m in my twenties. Most likely over-paid. Even then, I’m sometimes whiny about my income. One child. No spouse. Standing there with my too-fucking-expensive coffee and a cell phone leash.
I couldn’t help it. I felt guilty. I hated it all right then. I hated that I felt guilty. I hated that it would most likely seem offensive because it was almost like pity. I hated that I often stress about money for food and clothes for my daughter and me when there are people out there who feel just ducky about shelling out billions of dollars for parties and furnished penthouse apartments and their daughters’ nose jobs, and I AM FEELING GUILTY.
I’m great at guilt. It’s a shame I wasn’t raised catholic.
Shhh. Don’t tell. They told me my canonization is in the mail.
12:10 p.m. - 2002-10-02
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