The Longest Day of My Life
After my champion death race, I went out to breakfast. Had buttered toast, because sometimes that happens. Because I hate being a picky-pants diner and asking too much of my server. Dad ordered me coffee, and though I never drink more than a quarter cup, I sipped the whole thing down, steadily, as it was hot on my red, raw tonsils.
I’ve long wondered what would happen if I drank so much caffeine. I’d thought it would make me jittery, nervous, sweaty.
Turns out it makes me IRRITABLE AS HELL, which is less than helpful when you’ve got to go spend 5 hours serving the (young/feral/homeless) public of Salt Lake City. Which I did, teeth gritted.
Drained does not even BEGIN to cover it. The emotional gymnastics and physical demands I’ve been torturing myself with all led up to yesterday afternoon, too tired to bike home, so I walked it, thinking “It’s okay. We can lay in bed and cry when we get home.”
Except instead of my big blue bed there were 5 fire trucks and several police cars blocking off my street. A fire. In my building.
I laughed out loud.
Silver lining: I hadn’t locked my door. So while everyone else’s door had been CHOPPED IN WITH AN AXE, I only lost one side of the door jamb. Plus the firefighters stepped on my map I was flattening on the ground. Right on Antarctica. It’s a story, though, right?
And the day was not over yet. Oh no. There remained The Salon, where Eric and I played music, dressed in “nostalgic evening attire” and listened to faux artsy talk from the type of people who are always ON. You know?
But we did our best to fit in:
(Sidenote: Iz is an angel. Nevermind the blessed little smoothie she made for me, last night she dressed me, loved me, supported me, understood. We came up with an outfit in zero seconds. Zero. All the while with an enormous bike wound on her thigh and ass. Love this girl).
I went into another dimension while Eric and I were playing. Auto-pilot. Fingers dancing to their own rhythm while my mind marveled at how close Eric and I have become and how very, very delirious I was feeling.
* * *
Walked home, to my smoke-scented apartment. Fell asleep. Woke up. Talked on the phone. At some point I shot up, picked up my phone, said “I love you,” and listened to the silence for a long beat before realizing that I’d long since ended that conversation and was talking to a dead piece of electronics.
A long, long day.
And still, life is good.