To rage or not to rage?

I sort of had a bad couple days, I’m not gonna lie. I worked like hell all weekend, and, in the end, little seemed to come of it. Being a person who defines herself by her work, this didn’t sit well with me. I hate wasting time, number one, and number two, I missed seeing my sister, in town from DC for the holiday, and attending a party the likes of which Seekonk, MA has never seen.

As is my way, after deciding that my professional life was up a creek, I proceeded to analyze every other aspect of my existence, from my marriage to my taste in window dressing to the very core of my being and decided, unequivocally, that it was all a big, steaming, worthless pile of shit.

I did all this analyzing, mind you, from the rumpled confines of my bed. Because I pretty much spent 48 solid hours there.

While thus ensconced for the duration of Monday and Tuesday, I did a lot of thinking about Saturday. Last month I drunkenly e-vited more than seventy people to my 29th birthday party (7/12/08, check your calendars) and I’ve been having panic attacks about it ever since. What if everyone comes? What if nobody comes? What will we do with the cat? Do I rent a hall? Do I rent out a bar? Do I just buck the whole thing and emigrate to Guam? And in the depths of my misery, when I couldn’t even muster the energy to mix a cocktail (ok, maybe i mustered the energy to mix one or two), the notion of organizing myself and the apartment to host dozens of guests seemed unfathomable.

Thankfully, my husband helped me climb out of the bell jar with an 8pm screening of Wall-E, so the party is still on. But I wish I were the kind of person who didn’t need digitally projected saccharine to make me see that life is not crap.

Ah well, for the moment I don’t have time to deal with that. I’ve got vegetables to dice and booze to buy! Priorities, priorities.

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