I woke up today not feeling any better physically, but in a far better place mentally. So after Ryan went to work, I ate my big bowl of frosted flakes, showered, did my daily stretches that keep me from feeling like I'm a crippled old hag, and got on my bicycle. Well, okay, I did get dressed first. Actually, I did that before I did the stretches. Something creepy about naked stretching that I just can't put my finger on.
But I digress. As usual.
So I hopped on my bike and decided to ride over and visit Ryan on his lunch break. 30 minutes of peddling, wondering what the weird clicky noise was that my bike was making, tugging down my shirt so that I didn't show butt crack, and repeatedly stopping to try and diagnose the clicky noise, I was there. I combed the store for 20 minutes, but couldn't find him. Then I was about to ask where the break room was and if I could possibly pop in there for a second to see if Ryan was there, I realized suddenly MY BIKE, MY BABY, WAS OUTSIDE WITHOUT A LOCK ON IT. It probably wasn't a huge cause for concern, but well, you know how I am. My favorite sport is PANICKING FOR NO REASON. So I run outside to check the bike, and of course, it's still there. But it's being eyed by some older man who, when he sees me walking towards it, says, "Nice bike. Are you going back in the store? I'll watch it for you. Why are you here? Are you here for a personal ad? I'll watch your bike." To my boobs, no less.
He'll WATCH my BIKE for me? PERSONAL AD? It became official at that point -- there was no way I was going to leave my baby outside with him. Everything from his creepy leer, to his bright white velco tennis shoes said, "I want to steal your bike or grope you. Preferably both."
I had a bit of a dilemma. I still wanted to see Ryan, but I wasn't going to leave the bike. So I craned my neck to see in the store as best I could while Mr. Personal Ad chattered on and on about his cousin, the wrestler, and kept asking me questions like, "So. Are you strong? Do you wrestle?" Even the little old hairnet lady a foot to my right was starting to look nervous. Finally, I ditched the plan, got on my bike, and left Ryan to eat lunch alone.
On the way back home, I decided to be nice and make up for my no-show lunch by grabbing subs for dinner. I walk in the store, and the guy behind the counter starts telling me pirate jokes and going, "Do you think an hour and a half late to work is excessive? I mean, it only happened this once, and it was an accident!" while the girl working tried to glare a hole in him. He talked the whole time, and kept trying to put pickles on all the food, but I managed to stop him.
On the final leg of the ride home, the clicky noises got louder, I was almost run over by a blazer (yet another reason to loathe those horrifyingly ugly vehicles), and I got chased down the street by a frat dog. An angry, manky frat dog who seemed to feel that it was MY fault he was manky and tied to that tree rather than those 30 boys who live in the house.
I know that part of the reason I'm so tired is because I'm sick as a dog, but I can't help but thing that if maybe Ryan & I could calm ourselves at night and actually SLEEP, I'd be much more rested. But ooooh no, we're like kids at a slumber party. The lights go off, and suddenly we're exchanging stories about our most embarassing public farts or something. Pretty soon, I'm laughing so hard I sound like a drunk donkey, and Ryan's going, "SHHHH! The neighbors. The neigbors!"
And you probably think I'm kidding. Sadly, I'm not. Last night, we actually had that conversation. It lasted for two hours. Ryan discovered that the reason I always sit next to someone in class is because I want to have someone to shoot dirty looks at when I fart. (Poor Ryan. I am disgusting.) And I discovered that apparently farting in a choir room is VERY LOUD, and can cause the teacher to stop talking, the entire class to turn around, and some yokel named Hunter Faughnaught to say in a very southern accent, "GOOD ONE, HEAD!" The name Faughnaught alone was enough to make me snort like an intoxicated barnyard animal, and when you add choir room farting into it, well, there was just no recovering from that one.
So now you know what really goes on in my bedroom at night. I'll save the wild sex stories for, um... never.
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