So – sorry to be all absent and non-posty. Big little meeting is all done with a minimum level of trauma and maximum level of exhaustion. Highlights included dinner at a barn and pumpkins full of candy as far as the eye could see. I believe the staff was in sugar coma for much of the meeting.
We’re taking bets on when I might get it together enough to haul my suitcase out of my trunk and up three flights of stairs. Anyone that had less than three days after the meeting has placed a losing bet. Sorry friends. Apparently I CAN go a week without wearing slacks to work.
I’m back now and certainly will have more deep thoughts to share, including the following.
Groundhog day:
Aka - Why life in the adult world sometimes requires a pile of blankets, a pint of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and a cat. Sadly – I still have no cat.
I am in the enviable position of knowing some amazing and spectacular people who I am blessed to call my friends. I was in the unenviable position last week of having to gently (hopefully) request that one of these remarkable souls give me some space so that I could recover from some, shall we say, distracting feelings of depth.
Apparently I was unclear on the “space” factor here, and in one of those rare moments that adulthood affords you to both feel terrible AND SIMULTANEOUSLY inflict pain on others, I had to have a second-go-round of this conversation. Details aside, my timing on the first version wasn’t great, simply because it had to happen, and my timing on part deux was horrid - cosmic events coinciding to actually act as a fulcrum for the leverage of crappiness. YAY! I think my soul may have died a little bit this month.
So – I’m sure this isn’t very interesting for you, but it brings me back to a business idea from my late 20s…consider it patented.
I am of the opinion that every city needs the following establishment for those of us folk who are basically flying solo through the universe. When there is nowhere to go for the comforts of home or when the comforts of home never quite existed in the first place.
It’s a hotel (of course) somewhere within driving distance and preferably both in the woods and on the water.
You call a number (this is only the actual action that must be taken on your part).
The hotel comes to pick you up in a nice sedan where you can sleep in the back, then they check you in and give you flannel pajamas, fuzzy slippers, a tooth brush, the whole nine yards. You hand them your calendar and they get you out of whatever it is you have somehow committed yourself to be doing. Do you need to pack anything? Nope! You just call and they come get you. When you get there, your room consists of a giant couch, a fluffy bed, a big tv, and is all sort of old and rumply with a whole bunch of blankets. From room service you can order crappy magazines, pets, bottles of whatever, pints of ice cream, yoga teachers, gallons of diet coke, music, playdough, books… you get the idea. Every day is mandatory nap time from 2:00pm-4:00pm. Dinner is served every night at 8:00pm at the big table, where no one is cranky with you for being not so talky. Then after three days, or when you are theoretically able to see the light at the end of your tunnel again, they drive you home.
And they have cleaned your apartment while you are gone.
And preferably done your laundry.
I think this establishment would be a great service to society, and should in fact be covered by health insurance.
If I figure out how to make it happen, you will be the first to know. In the meantime, I’ve got some laundry to do.
I suspect I will be wearing my suspenders of funny again in the near future, so just keep an eye on the space. I promise you, if nothing else, Joy for Monday…
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