From here on out, folks, all of the Fridays in 2014 will be known to the public as ‘Fuck This’ Friday.
I have this sort of irrational resolution. Every morning for the next year, before I do anything else, I will rise out of bed and run around the block- in my pajamas and whatever shoes I can find. Sometimes jogging like regular folk, if that’s all I can muster, but preferably like a lunatic or a bat out of hell. Punching the air and high kicks earn bonus points.
It’s ridiculous, I know. I can’t explain what it’s for or how it’s supposed to effect things for the better. All I can say is that something has to change for the sake of my sanity. If that thing is how I get out of bed every morning, well then I’ll be damned if i can’t say that this year was different than the last. So be it.
On the first morning, I was at the lake house, where John and I got married. It’s picture perfect in the Summer- and, also, in the Winter. There was over two feet of standing snow. I chose to do a lap around the house since there isn’t a ‘block’ to run around, and there are wolves, people, so I wasn’t running anywhere out of sight.
I woke up John to take a quick shift of Graham duty, wrapped myself in a scarf and a coat, pulled on my winter boots, and shot out the door. I punched the air and yelled at the top of my lungs. There were plenty of ‘Woooo’s and, also, f-bombs. It felt… weird, but at least I was doing it. I got snow up to my thighs and made a note to wear gloves the next time.
Yesterday, I almost had an asthma attack. Our block is a longer run and the temperatures hang in the negatives around the time I wake up, so I probably should have set my pace accordingly, it being so cold and having asthma and all. Lesson learned, 2014.
Today, I was not pleased. I woke up and the sky was this beautiful orangey red color from my window. I bumbled down the stairs, wrapped up again, and paced myself this time. There were a few punches and leaps out of obligation. The sky had turned pink and I was grumpy. I slowed to take a quick picture, because it’s my resolution and I can stop to take pictures if I want to. I knew I should be appreciating the natural beauty of it all and being thankful for what I have, but it wasn’t coming easy.
I turned a corner and the sky to the north was purple, my little pony fucking purple, I kid you not. Then I was really pissed, because g-damnit, if I wasn’t just full of resentment for my current existence this morning and the last thing I needed was a reminder of what an ungrateful twit I was being.
When I got home I felt heavy with depression. I felt tired of being taken down by this haze. I was pissed. I bumbled about washing my face and brushing my hair, then I came downstairs and, despite my current ban of milk from my diet, poured myself a big bowl of cereal with cow’s milk and ate it.
I went up to get Graham from bed. He was still bleary eyed and just waking up, so instead of pulling him up to snuggle, I climbed in. This is particularly ridiculous, because he has been sleeping in a pack n’ play. We stayed there for a while, staring and smiling every now and again. Let it be known that one thing I really like about this kid of mine is that he inherited my lack of social abilities in the morning. Amen to mutual morning silence.
We got up, and he had breakfast. I realized that the playgroup I thought was to happen this morning was not. And so I texted playdate friends to see if I could find some entertainment for Graham, because I was not feeling up to the challenge. They were busy.
We facetimed with long distance friends, but had to hang up because our almost one-year-old friend could not be kept from destroying the iphone on her end. I gave up and played trains, and trucks, and kitchen. Then I got hungry.
This is the part where ‘Fuck This’ Friday’s were born.
I went into the kitchen and chopped up mushrooms, shallots and garlic like it was my job. I’d be damned if Graham wouldn’t eat them. I wanted to eat them. He could have the plain pasta sauce. No amount of complaining was going to stop me.
Then I boiled up a huge pot of spaghetti. This act feels incredibly bold to me, because John hates pasta, so if ever I make it, I have to be willing to deal with the wild backlash of complaints. Not just during the meal, but for an entire week, I kid you not. Graham complained for most of the lunch making process. He didn’t like spaghetti, he said. He lied. He’s two and half, what a little rat, that one. THEN, I even made poor man’s garlic bread to really pack the carbs into this meal.
We sat down and I ate an enormous amount, AND I felt great about it. ‘Fuck this!’ I thought. I’m not going to sit around and wait for a good day to arrive. I’m going to make this day a great day, if it kills us.
Nap time came. I’ve been trying to avoid midday sleeping, because it can really screw with my night sleep, but it is hard. This stupid depression makes me really tired, like really tired. Today I slept.
When we woke up, we ate oranges. I started the car, because we were missing an ingredient, and we were going to make chocolate cupcakes come hell or high water. We stopped to buy the plants I’d been wanting for my bedroom. Then we headed home. John called and informed me that I’d be on Graham duty alone this weekend.
‘Fuck this. I’m making fucking cupcakes. I don’t have time to think about how long the next two days might be,’ I thought.
I came home and I made those fucking cupcakes. Then I declared a family movie night and we ate popcorn and cheese and cupcakes for dinner.
So, ‘Fuck This’ Fridays. Who’s with me?