Yesterday started with good intentions. After a long, arduous weekend filled with work, I walked into Monday look for a break.
Not so much.
Punctuated with surprises throughout the day, some pleasant and some not so pleasant (both work and personally) I was ready to take out my frustration in spin class.
Again, not so much.
I couldn’t get anywhere within a two-mile radius of my class due to event parking. And yes, I DID consider walking to my exercise class, those looking for irony here, but that would have made me 20 minutes late. A sin not to be trifled with in a class run by a trainer with a military background. Not. Happening.
Deciding not to be defeated, I headed home with visions of workout videos and Wii dance in my head. I was determined to undo the morning’s breakfast sandwich snafu.
Again not so much.
I drove home, 40 minutes through traffic, only to realize my husband has the house keys. That’s a longer story, so we’ll just cue the Napoleon Dynamite sigh. Also, said husband isn’t due home for another four hours. Sighing interjected with a few eff bombs.
What now? Why, I finally admit defeat. Monday has claimed its prize. So, I venture to El Molinito, determined to turn my frown upside down with a margarita and enough carne asada to provide me with temporary amnesia. And it’s at this point I realize, all in all, not a bad day.
p.s. The waiter keeps calling me baby. I beg Tuesday to bring me good tidings.