That isn't a song I wanted to choose, because for one, I don't particularly listen to George Thorogood, and for two, I dislike drinking when I'm by myself. But this has been A Week From Hell, and I figured, F it. I needed to decompress. So I put on my softest jammies, grabbed a fancy glass, poured a couple ounces of a drink that barely qualifies as booze, and I sat in my room, watching a comedy special on Netflix that everyone has been talking about on social media for a week. The comedian was way more than I expected (Bo Burnam Inside--read reviews before you watch so you aren't as surprised as I) and the drink was more dessert than anything else (Irish cream). I'm not even sure I successfully got my mind off this long-ass week.
I tried unwinding in more wholesome ways first. I got fries from McDonald's, and went over to see whether my grandbaby wanted to share them (she had two, sort of). She showed me her new favorite pop up book, and we read that about thirty times in twenty minutes. My energy was rather limited, though, so I moved to sit with her on the deck, watching her parents do yardwork, just long enough that she was comfortable in her playpen and didn't complain when I split to go home and mope.
I scheduled too many things this week. That wasn't a problem because it tired me. That was a problem because when I got unexpected results from several of my encounters, it felt like a ton of bricks fell on me steadily over the course of five days. I almost wish I were capable of crying it out, but that feels too unproductive and I don't give up that easy. So my chin is up, and I am determined to face the next rounds of testing like a big girl. But I also poured a second glass of that dessert beverage.
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