I’ve been disappointed this weekend.
On many levels.
People have disappointed me, new people, old people, football people, tv people…disappointed.
It’s been a long while since I’ve felt this way. It doesn’t mesh well inside of me. I don’t like it. It’s prickly and pokey and generally unpleasant.
I told my PseudoSis that at 21 a weekend like that would have put me down for 2 weeks with binging and purging.
At 40, it just means I’ll buy a Paula Deen poundcake from Walmarks, be generally bitchy for about 72 hours, then start to write about it and file it away.
Her response was, “Yes, there’s something to be said about maturity. . . and a little cake never hurts.”
I’ve given myself until 2pm class time this afternoon to dwell. Then it’s back in the saddle. This horse and pony show isn’t canceling due to disappointment.