Well, let’s take inventory here, shall we?
It’s a quarter till twelve in the evening. I’m sitting in my boxers and a T-shirt on the couch, trying to stay cool in our non-air-conditioned house. I’ve got to be up at eight in the morning to give a presentation to the boss and assorted hangers-on. And I just microwaved something called a ‘Bowl Creation’ for dinner. It’s sort of a poor man’s excuse for macaroni and cheese. Which is particularly depressing, since macaroni and cheese is sort of a poor man’s excuse for dinner in the first place.
Folks, if this isn’t ‘rock bottom’, then I don’t want to be frigging conscious when I see it. Christ.
Actually, this sort of night isn’t that far from the norm for me recently. Honestly, I’ve sort of been letting myself go for the summer. I’m taking it easy, eating all wrong, slacking off — hell, I can’t remember the last time I got my hair cut. April, maybe? Nineteen ninety-seven? Who knows? I’m a mess.
Of course, the truly disturbing thing about it is… I’m not sure anyone has really noticed. And if there’s anything worse than mailing it in and skating through life for a couple of months, then it’s mailing and skating, and having people think that’s more or less normal for you. I’m learning a lot here, people. ‘Life lessons’ can be so cruel, dammit.
On the other hand, maybe this is an opportunity. When life hands you ‘slumming’, then… well, I’m not sure, really. I guess you’re supposed to make ‘slum ade’, or ‘ghetto soda’, or maybe ‘back alley juice’.
(Although really, folks — if I ever start making ‘back alley juice’ of any kind, just slap the Depends on me and put me in a home, would you? And keep me away from the jalapenos. I’ve got enough problems as it is.)
Disgusting euphemisms aside, let’s get back to the opportunity part. See, now I’m curious — if I can get away with wrinkled shorts and messy hair… just how far can I go, exactly? Untied shoes and a five o’clock shadow? Mismatched socks and a wifebeater? Rusty nipple clamps and a pair of ruffled lederhosen?
Okay, maybe that’s a bit far. There’s ‘spiralling downward into wretched slovenliness’, and then there’s… well, then there’s prancing around with your nipples clamped and your hosens ledered. Just a little bit different, I’m thinking.
(And yeah, I added the prancing after the fact. It was kind of an afterthought. But think about it — if you were decked out in booby pinchers and German leggings, wouldn’t you feel like prancing? I’m just saying.)
Anyway, I’ve got to run off to bed — only two or three hours earlier than my usual beddy-bye time. Gotta rest up for that talk tomorrow. And hey — now I’ve got a few ideas about what outfit to wear for the big meeting. It’s gonna be Oktoberfestive, baby!Permalink | 2 Comments