woe is me

The question you never want someone to ask you at work: "Um, do you know your skirt is ripped?"

The gently posed question, with ladylike hesitance, is met with my equally un-ladylike, "Well, is my butt showing?"

I mean, what else is there to say?

It's just one of those days. The winter wind is howling past my window, reminding me that it’s a crappy day for the car to be in the shop. It's a day that fulfills the Hollywood stereotype of the Canadian North; bitter, bone-freezing wind, stinging bits of blowing snow, drifts piling up along the roads.

It's one of those days of frustrations and inexplicable emotional anxiety. The smallest thing pushes me beyond keeping my emotions in check. Don't know if I am too tired, or what, but it seems as if lately I am unable to emotionally and mentally cope with my own schedule. My coworker teased me that I was pregnant. Oh, God forbid! No, no, the diagnosis is simply "emotional train-wreck".

I stare at my Happy paintings for awhile, colours and order and symmetry, visual therapy for the mind. Never mind that I have duct-taped the back of my skirt to make it through the day. I have to say I've done an excellent job of patching the huge rip in it. I can be quite handy with duct-tape. The real question is why I would have a roll of duct-tape in my desk.

So now I have unloaded. The Happy paintings inspire me to ignore the depressing swirl outside, the pounding headache is easing off with Ibuprofen, the duct-tape is holding, the mechanic called to say the car is only going to cost $250. And my husband called to say he loved me. What more could I ask for?