Irony is a Bitch

Do not EVER write about some poor dude driving in his car looking upset.

"Oh, you poor, sad, man...I am so happy in my car of emotional security...eating my wheat toast and daintily drinking my soy milk. You distraught man, I hope happiness for you".

Yeah, so that completely bit me in the ass. Yesterday I was dispensing well-wishes to the anonymous sad guy...today the tables were turned.

I've been working through some personal issues since, oh, shortly after I parted ways with the dude of desperation. By today, I'd worked myself up pretty well. I was so completely unravelled that I got at least 200% more done in the office than I usually do (and I'm normally one productive girl).

I'd been holding in tears all day. I even made it through a syphilis elimination meeting that's facilitated by the CDC. I'm hoping my shaking voice and swollen eyes masqueraded as being super passionate about eliminating syphilis.

Finally, the end of the day. I'm close to getting closure on the situation (although at the time, I didn't know resolution was around the corner...I felt pretty lost and hopeless...ah, hindsight).

I get into my car and I begin to cry the ugly cry. Yeah, that's right, driving down the street, red face, giant tears streaming down my face, forehead in palm (sound familiar?)...sobbing, choking, gasping for air.

And then I see him...some happy-looking character in a red pick-up truck ahead of me. He's peering at me in the rear-view mirror with sympathy. Perhaps wondering what's wrong? (Someone keyed my hatchback? A giant splinter of fiberglass in my ass from a cruel water park slide? I got picked last on the team playing kickball?).

Perhaps he wished that my day would get better.

Enjoy it now, Buddy...your day's tomorrow and I might not be there to hope things get better (but someone else might...and the cycle goes on...or at least in my mind it will).