It’s official: I am one hot mess. This may not come as a surprise to anyone else experiencing a particularly surly 2020, but the revelation gives me pause. I have zero chance of surviving the holidays if I continue with my present M.O.
After spending 10 hours at school each day attempting to navigate whatever hybrid, rotating-block cohort, nonsensical schedule is the current COVID-mitigating pedagogical flavor of the month, I come home, collapse on the couch and stuff my mask-marked face with the most easily accessible food. Twice, my dinner has consisted of microwave kettle corn. And once, an entire Meijer pumpkin pie. I won’t apologize.
Next is the nightly Netflix binge – “Derry Girls,” “Queen’s Gambit,” “Dash and Lily,” the terrible “Holidate,” it truly makes no difference — followed by the dragging of my sorry-self upstairs, where I desperately try to stay awake until the acceptable bed-time hour of 9 p.m. by reading apocalyptic YA fiction. I rarely succeed. What’s the point? It’s perpetually dark and cold, anyway, just like my soul.
Incoherent grunts constitute the bulk of communication with my housemates – Husband, Daughter, Dog and Cat. Names no longer matter. And god forbid if Husband tries to talk to me. The urge to throat-punch has never been stronger. I love my family but don’t like any of them right now.
Even more telling, I’ve been drinking from the same coffee mug for two weeks and dressing without underwear for almost as long because I haven’t yet unloaded the dishwasher or dryer. And horrifying Halloween animatronics still occupy my dining room, silently shaming me when I pass.
Yep, I’m one hot mess. And the holidays are nigh.