It Probably Can't Get Worse

I have hit bottom. This time it's really, really bad. It's worse than things being so ordinary around here that I have nothing to write about. I haven't even told you yet and still I can feel your disappointment in me already. And yet I feel as though I should make this public confession. Penance of a sort.

I stayed in my pajamas all day yesterday. All. day. long. I didn't even do the cheating thing where I shower and then put on a clean pair of jammies. No, it was face washed, teeth brushed, same pajamas. Went to bed wearing the same thing I woke up wearing.

And I don't even have the excuse that I was sick. Not that it would be an excuse. When I'm sick I still at least put on clean pajamas if I don't outright get dressed.

It's okay. You can admit it. You think less of me now. You've read this and the words "lazy", "slothful" and perhaps even "trifling" went through your mind. You've imagined me in my limp, rumpled jammies, my hair in a messy braid, my feet clad in my Cheeky Monkey slippers and your lip has curled in disgust. You didn't know I had it in me to sink so low.

But today was a different day. I was up bright and early to shower and wash and deep condition my hair. I donned clean, pressed clothes and makeup and did more today than loll on the sofa and knit and watch movies. I did actual housework and ran errands and even bothered to clean the sale papers out of my mailbox. I was myself again. And yet the urge to disappoint you and confess to it once again raged within me and so I have one more confession to make. I hope you can forgive me but but will understand if you, in good conscience, cannot.

I just ate a Hot Pocket.