“My name is Might’ve Been” ~Hole

It’s the “here we go again” 70 page background check and polygraph prep: Recall my mailing address two decades ago in South Korea? Nope. My ex-husband’s social security number? Nope. His current mailing address? Definitely not. Have I ever allowed recreational marijuana use in my home? Define “allowed”. Have I ever worked at a job where alcohol consumption on duty was allowed? Yes, in fact, it was encouraged. It’s called “radio”. Ever blog about porn? Guilty! Oh wait, that’s not one of the questions. Wheew!

I’d rather be bedazzling on this Friday night. My grandmother was a costume designer in the golden age of Vaudeville in Miami and she made it look so easy, affixing rhinestones armed with nothing but a metal nail file and her own acrylic tipped fingernails.

I just returned from a few (too few) days in the woods with my dog. We were along the GA/SC border and it was cold! I’m part lizard so I’m always cold but even my wanna-be mountain dog didn’t want to get out of the car on Day 2 after traipsing (more like tripping) 8 miles through the hills the day prior in 30 degrees. Probably spent more time on the road than in the woods, I simply didn’t have much PTO to spare.

But road trips are a game of Name That Roadkill, of signs warning me that Judgement Day is coming, and old trucks on the side of the road that I salivate over the idea of buying and busting my knuckles on, , singing to my dog for 10 hours, choreographing dance and comedy routines in my head, wishing I’d thought to be a Park Ranger when I grew up, and overthinking in general.

Thinking about random shite. Like…

And so it begins again, New Year, New You. The usual suspects on my social media checking in to their gyms and taking pictures of their salads as if NOT doing this would negate any benefits of their temporary new routines and diets.

If I had a New Year’s resolution it might be to run (okay, slow jog, ie: “Slog”) every day (yes EVERY day) and replace wine with tea.

Then I think about these studies that say running is NOT the best form of exercise and I think “Those are conducted by people that sincerely hate running”. And I eat them up like gospel because I sincerely hate running. But the fact in my experience remains that I do not know a single sincere runner in bad shape. Even those like me with bad backs, knees, etc…their conditions improved with running (ie: losing weight). When I ruck 15 miles carrying an extra 50lbs, I hurt the next day. But I’m carrying an extra 50lbs all over my body EVERY day. So I hurt. Dur.

I still don’t want to run.

And I think I’ll stick to the state highways and off the interstate as much as possible in the future. On these now “back-roads”, there’s less traffic and I don’t have the peer pressure of keeping up with the speeding flow or avoiding leapfrogging semi-trucks or impatient assholes psychically nudging my bumper to force me to drive even faster than the 20 over I’m already traveling (by the way, Bitch, I can pit you. Back. Off.)

And I think about CK and his love of museums. I told him the only museums I enjoyed were the Smithsonian in DC and…I think I’ve been to the Louvre but that year was a blur for me. “Where is the Mona Lisa?” I asked. The Louvre, he answered. Then yes, I’ve been to the Louvre because I remember her. I don’t enjoy the Ringling museum but there are two pieces I like, the portrait of Salome and the three muses: spinning, measuring and cutting. I’m particularly drawn to the one that cuts.

But back to CK, the man who loves museums and spends Friday nights organizing his desk drawer and kitchen cupboards for the 5th time this year. I told him he is a prime candidate for the Dull Men’s Club and should apply. They’d send him a certificate that he can frame for his office and everything.

“See you on a dark night” ~ Grimes

My head is screaming today in this corporate hell. I hate the sound of the spoon scrape, scrape, scraping against her yogurt container breakfast because she’s too polite to lick the bowl when no one is looking. Followed hours later by her shake, shake, shaking a plastic bowl of salad at lunch. I hate how they close the doors conspiratorially as if they assume I give two shits about their gossip. They don’t realize I am a Priest, full of secrets, classified and lifetimes of thrilling experience. I was influential. Now I’m “nobody”. So retired, I could be dead.  I am disgusted daily. Some days, my face bears the truth of my disdain and I barely bother to conceal it. Headphones on, I tune out their prattle about their genius, overindulged spawn and focus on the menial tasks I’m relegated to. I never thought I’d be here a year later. I thought I’d be gone in a week. And months passed. And the chip got too big for my shoulder and now it’s a monster of a mountain handcuffed to my fat, slow feet…

Praying, begging for inspiration, patience, a break-through, a light, a rope…pull me out, even if it’s by my neck. I promise I’m not unreachable. If you rescue me, I would be so grateful, work so hard, give you my life. What I have left that I haven’t already donated…

Tis the season when the sun squats low in the sky and that may be part of the problem. Not enough “D”. Not enough “O” either. Weather permitting, I will disappear into the woods along the Appalachian trail for a few days with my dog next weekend. I burn my leave time from work just as fast as I earn it. But it’s a known fact: unhappy workers are absent more.