Just finished reading Samantha Irby's Meaty. (Yes, I stopped to underline that before continuing) Monday night is weight class night. I typically go with a friend and we go sweat and lift and swear and make faces at each other while giggling.
This Monday night, I laid on my bed and devoured Meaty. (Yep, again) I should have gone to class. Sleep will be tough tonight and my little anxiety twitches are already increasing intensity. Or if not go to class, clean my room. Fold and hang the clothes from the pile in the corner of my floor. Sweep up the cat hair and cat litter mine love to shed & spread. Scrub up the various markers of cat bile vomit and put my shoes in the rack, but no. I laid across my bed and delved into Irby's essays.
And I felt welcomed. For I think Irby would understand and probably take it as the compliment I intend it to be.
I did manage to start a load of laundry after. I need sheets, I can only stand the cat fur addition for so long before I am grossed out and contemplating sleeping sans sheets.
So tonight my accomplishments rate at laundry (1 maybe 2 loads), decent dinner (ie not fast food or frozen) and reading Meaty.
Yea,I get a pat on the back.
**UPDATE: Cat vomit cleaned along with extra special hairball splat. Go Me!