[Insert long, low whistle here.]
What a day.
Work was fine. It was work. I've been getting to know some of my new coworkers better, and the sarcastic banter has been kicked up a notch as a result. Two of the most witty people in the building sit right outside my office, so I have no shortage of entertainment throughout the day.
But it was a long day, probably because I went to bed late and was woken up much too early by Nolan, who is literally up with the birds each day. And now, at 8PM, I'm hoping I can make it through the next five innings of the Yanks first of 18 games against the Red Sox this season. So far, no score.
It doesn't help that I'm listening to a lullaby. Ken Singleton, former major league player and longtime announcer for the Yankees, has the best voice. It's smooth and cool and unruffled and wryly amused. I love it. I wish I had a recording of him reading Good Night Moon. I'd listen to it every night at bedtime. I wish I had a special little Ken Singleton box, that had a button I could press whenever I wanted to hear a reassuring affirmation from Ken at a moment's notice. Feeling stressed? Press the button. "Go with the flow," says Ken. Burn dinner? "Mmm...that's looked better but it still looks good to me," says Ken. Having a bad hair day? "It's just a funny looking little pimple," says Ken. "I don't think anyone's going to notice. You still look great. Heh heh heh." The opportunities are endless for his Positive Mental Attitude voice-overs.
Until that moment I crawl into bed tonight (and dream of Ken announcing double plays), I'm parking it on the couch. I don't do this often. I'm always gogogogogogogogogo. But tonight? The kids are with their dad. The BF is at work. I went for a run when I got home. And the dog is sacked out on the floor, recovering from a seizure she had right before I got home tonight. Ah, the joys of an epileptic dog. During happy hour on a Friday, I was busy cleaning up dog pee and frothy spit, two fringe benefits of her occasional seizures. I had no choice but to run after coming home to that. It was the only way I could come down from my day. So I ran and ran and ran until I didn't feel like running anymore, until my sick dog and money and the decision to maybe--maybe not?--buy a house right now was no longer at the front of my brain. I pushed it back. I sweat it out. I took deep breaths. I ran home.
So now, the house is clean, my belly is full, the dog is fine, the turtle is content in his tank, and the Yanks are playing the Sox in a rainy Friday game. And the Yanks are now up 1-0. It's Spring. Baseball is back. And so what if the kids are up with the birds in the morning? We all should be.
Here's a great clip from a great movie. Something tells me I'll be having a similar conversation with Nolan this spring. The kid is not even four and can hit off pitches instead of the tee. Even the Little League Board knows who this kid is--because when he was two years old he was hitting pitches during his older brother's practices, which the coaches let him join because he has such an obvious, innate love for the game. But he's still only three. Three year olds cry. A lot. Especially when they don't win:
Shit! Sox tied it up!