How absolute soul crushing is it when you realize it’s not Saturday but Wednesday, the sun is not shining, your hand might actually be dead and not just sleeping and you have a list of things on the To-do list that will be impossible to get done in one day let alone on a stupid "Surprise I'm Wednesday not Saturday." And that on that list of things To-do is the memorization of fifty plus pages of dialog, due by next week amongst all the other fiddly things that need doing that shouldn’t suck up a day but will. And all this realization is happening while your arm decides it’s not dead after all and sends you a wake-up call of the pain of a thousand needles on fire and you start to wish you have the tools to cut it off and throw it from your body.
And it’s then you realize that even if it were Saturday, you’d still not be able to putz about the house because you’re scheduled to play lovely assistant to Husband’s handy man as he rebuilds the staircase to the basement, while learning those fifty pages of dialog in a full body suit of rubber to protect you from the disease ridden, pee stained old stair case, in between his shouting – sorry, gentle words of encouragement as you hold whatever piece of wood he has told you to hold over your head for hours, your back protesting and my hatred for him and staircases and all things DIY growing…UGH.
Can I just go back to bed, to the moment half-an-hour ago when life was good and filled with nothing but hope and rainbows?
Well, crappy crap.