If I had to describe this weekend, I would call it the Jabba the Hutt of weekends. Just a disgusting, unmotivated blob.
It’s too cold. Too snowy. Too February.
Every time I attempted to accomplish something this weekend, my body led me, zombie-like, toward my couch with mindless repetition.
“Maybe I’ll go to the gym,” I thought. My husband then came in the door, letting in frigid cold air. My body shriveled in protest, gluing me to the couch. So I took a nap instead.
“Maybe I’ll go to the store,” I tried again later. Just then a Friends marathon came on. “Or… not,” I said lamely, settling in once more.
“Maybe I should clean, or something.” This was really reaching. Needless to say, my cats decided at that exact moment to curl up on my lap, pinning me to the couch with their plushy, purry adorableness .
Okay, February. I shall fight you no longer. I surrender.
Even this blog post is lazy, right? But I just can’t. My brain has turned to bland mush, like oatmeal with no sugar. I need sun. I need to wear shoes that aren’t boots. I miss frying my skin with delicious UV rays. Oh, Creator of Fine Lines and Abnormal Moles, why hast thou forsaken us?
I’m tired of driving home from work in the dark. I’m starting to loathe my winter coat (even if it is bright cherry red and makes me feel like Mary Tyler Moore). I should be oozing lotion from applying it so much but, ignoring the laws of dermatology, my hands are still dry as sand. Dammit… I miss sand! I want to sit on a beach with a never-ending supply of margaritas yet never have to pee. (Hey, if I’m dreaming, I’m going all the way, baby!)
While I’m at it, I want to eat all the cheese but have no cellulite. I want to turn into Sofia Vergara, basically. Although that’s not just because of winter. Because, seriously?! Look at her!
That’s all I got, folks. Back to burrowing on my couch until spring. Which, in Ohio, is like a week long, so don’t let me miss it, okay?