Transient Transplant

On occasion something happens that really forces me to take a step back and evaluate where I’m at in life.  I had one of those moments last week–a “come to Jesus” moment if you will.

Nothing makes me genuinely have to reassess my life choices like having to do laundry for the sole purpose of cleaning my ugly Christmas sweater because I’ve actually been wearing it around my apartment like it might pass for a real article of clothing.

I typically pride myself on at least being semi pulled together.

But now that it’s chilly in Seattle, I’ve turned into more of a hibernating homebody.  I’ve been exhausted from all of the travel over the past few months and lately I’ve been taking my time to recharge.

And for me that means I’ve started rolling out of bed late Saturday morning to put on sweatpants and my ugly Christmas sweater because in a twist of fate, it turns out it’s the most comfortable sweater I own.

Then I make a cup of coffee and catch up on the Real Housewives of New Jersey, watching them throw wine glasses at each other and flip tables in restaurants.  I sip my coffee, a sick sense of satisfaction brought to my heart that I’m not the only one that frequently wants to flip tables in public, and feeling a tinge of jealousy that they have such follow through.

There would never be a Real Housewives of Seattle.  It would just be passive aggressive notes left on people’s doors to quiet down or strangers ignoring each other or rolling their eyes.  Not a quality tv show if you ask me.

Give me flipping tables any day.  I threaten to at least once a week, but I’ve never actually done it.  My favorite move when something makes me mad at work is to grab the table in front of me and mime like I’m flipping it, which either goes over incredibly well or draws concern depending on the crowd of coworkers.

I wish I had the balls to actually flip a table, particularly in a restaurant, making a mess of the plates and silverware, screaming that I was going to rip some bitch’s weave out of her head, but that would also require me getting out of sweatpants and finding the motivation to change out of the ugly Christmas sweater that I’ve been living in for two weeks now.

Plus I’d immediately be consumed by guilt and start cleaning up the mess, refusing to let anyone from the restaurant help because it was my responsibility.

Luckily for me, my mother unknowingly saved my life as she had sent me a long sleeved tee shirt that says, “Resting Grinch Face,” that I knew I could wear to the party.

I’d also like to take a moment to acknowledge the fact that my parents walked through a store, saw a shirt implying that the owner is a curmudgeonly Grinch and referring to resting bitch face and immediately thought of their precious baby girl and knew she had to have it.

That shirt was a lifesaver, and made me many friends at the party I went to.

I figured maybe acknowledging that I am both a Grinch as well as that I suffer from RBF is probably a good “fun fact” for people to know when I first meet them, so having it written on my shirt was shockingly helpful.  So now that I seem more approachable, they can have a laugh with me and instantly know if they have something in common with me or if they need to avoid me.  It cuts a lot of fat out really.  I should always wear shirts with personality descriptors:

“Will mime flipping a table at you for fun when frustrated.”

“Cheese + Wine = Happiness”

“Swears like a fucking sailor.”

After the party I went home thinking, while it was nice to recharge and be a hermit, I might be ready to venture out and about again.

But I’ll still keep my Saturday morning sweats, coffee, and trash tv tradition alive for a few hours before pulling myself together again.