Skip to content

being nessasary

a quirky look into being

Some mornings, your curls do not wave  hello, your clothes just don’t fit, and your makeup just doesn’t mask your distaste for office culture.  Your house may smell like last night’s stir fry and your roll of toilet paper may be gone. You guessed it, this was me after my alarm brought me back to life.

After trying on most of my pants, I finally accepted that they are barely buttoning (I am sure my doctors will love this, but I am not pleased that my once loose, “hot” jeans are now a little too eager to hug me).  All of my shirts are showing off my festively plump belly.  It seems the holiday 5 pound elf came a little early this year.  There was  a moment I frowned into my closet, and said to my cat, “I really do not want to go.”  She politely looked at me and proceeded to shred my nice garment bag.  No longer willing to look in a mirror or communicate with a creature that spends her time staring at specks on the wall, I went to the kitchen to take my morning cocktail of medication.  I ate a few black and blueberries, and told myself I needed to get over my morning nasties, for I am, after all, seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows:  Part 1 tonight!

It was game time, I either make it or break it.  Determined, I grabbed my purse and a box containing an ill-fitting sweater from Victoria’s Secret, and headed toward the local post office.  I loathe this particular post office.  The last time I was in there I was pushed to my breaking point.  I was sweating because I was so angry at the mean postal lady behind the desk.  I won’t go into it, but to say the least, I had to unload my story to the barista at the coffee shop next door.

♥ Flash forward to today:  I walk in, and the said cantankerous clerk was in position to torment me once again.  I felt the hair on my freshly shaven legs piercing through my skin.  She was scheming, I knew it – she would heckle my reuse of a box, the fact that I duct taped it close, and charge me even though I had free return postage.  I felt her hostility streaming in my direction. And then,

Her black beam of mean was diverted by a friendly smile.  An unfamiliar postal worker took up the register furthest from her.  He nicely said, “I can help you here, miss.”  Not only was his demeanor soothing, I was delighted he called me miss – I am not sure what calls for a woman to be called mam or miss, but I by no means  believe a 25 year old woman is a mam.  The polite postman looked over my slightly decrepit box, nodded and told me it would be in the mail today.  If life were a video game, the post office level, while being riddled with bad memories and a scary beastie,  rewarded me well.

Great Job!

♥ I traveled to the aforementioned coffee shop to get a delicious latte, and bumped into my friend Matt!  He is always someone that makes me giggle, and gives superb hugs. Matt is also a very good dinner date, even though we pretty much always go to La Piedad.  My friend and latte were just like that smiley face sticker you got on that spelling test in 3rd grade (m-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i).

♥ The final experience that solidly confirmed that my bad morning had come to an end follows this sentence, sort of.  This event may even trump my upcoming affair with Harry Potter.  Realistically, this story, beginning to now, deserves a post of its own (coming soon…maybe tomorrow).  This past summer I noticed a man who danced on any of the four corners of the Indianapolis intersection of 34th and College.  Once he had a Rallys burger in his right hand and a soda in his left, but he was still workin’ his hips and groovin’ to whatever jam was in his head.  I’d always look for his sweet, sweet moves as I drove to my  stagnant desk job.  He became a reliable smile, until one sad day he was gone.  A little bit of my heart broke away. Each day from then on, I looked for his distinct bounce, slide, and groove.  Months passed…until today!!!  As if I were in a poorly written commercial, coffee came squirting from my mouth as I pointed and waved to the oblivious, dance-crazed man.  The lazy guy that often doesn’t press play when we need a song to accompany our life’s most memorable moments actually clocked in for work today:  Paul Simon’s Call Me Al flooded the cabin of my truck.  Call Me Al is not only a quintessential happy song, it personally takes me to warm memories spent with friends.   It was like the moment was choreographed.  It was beautiful.  It was destiny preforming at its best.


%d bloggers like this: