She was mortified. I didn't want her to feel too bad, so I opted to shake it off and ask that the meeting proceed as though nothing had happened. In reality, it hurt like nobody's business. The clock was as big as a house and I swear it was at least 50 pounds. At one point I left the room to grab a hot tea and pop a couple of ibuprofen.
|The clock was pretty much THIS big...|
When I got back into the room, I zoned out for a while, thinking about of all of the unexpected things that have happened this week. And it's only Wednesday.
On Saturday morning we woke up to 3 inches of fresh snow on the ground. On Sunday, it was sunny and 60 degrees. Winter, summer, winter, summer, winter, summer...
In between the two, somebody thought it was a good idea to rob us of a perfectly well-earned 60 minutes and not tell me about it until a few hours before. Back in the day, changing the clocks was a huge event. If nothing else, everybody knew it was coming. Including me. Nowadays, it sneaks up and sucker punches you right when you finally get your kid into the swing of an awesome bedtime routine.
On Sunday, the family took a trip to the doctor. My parting gift? A Z-pack and yet another diagnosis of "illness induced asthma."
WHACK, BANG, BOOM!
Then there was the Myers-Briggs Incident. I mean Instrument. Have you used it? If you have, you know the four letters that represent your psychological preferences for how you view the world and make decisions. Sounds fascinating, right? RIGHT! Except if you take the test you're not supposed to call a "test" and—as Logan so adeptly put it—you break it. I just took it. And the results—as Sara so kindly put it—were inconclusive.
What's a girl to do?
I guess I'll just have to wait and see what Thursday and Friday bring. (And make sure to have my new inhaler—and maybe even a helmet—with me at all times, just in case.)