It happens to me every year. Call it karma. Call it the puzzle of repetitive stupidity. Call it anything you like. It won't change the fact that this year, too, your friend Blue had been looking forward to dusting off the old recliner. The idea was to not get distracted and just kick back and relax. Tick tock, tick tock. Come June and you will catch me telling myself again and again that this time, yes, this time I am going to do nothing but recharge the old batteries. There will be ice cream, yes, sir..... there will be no work-related phone calls, none of that you-know-what. No emails, no messages, no love letters either. Just a bucket of ice cream and a whole lot of sunshine. Plus loads of free time. Heap loads, truckloads. Ahhhh life can be great!
And then it happened.
My Bollywood Princess reminded me of a promise I had made when I was drunk. This summer I would build her a dream closet. Nothing fancy... just real big. As in a modest 15 foot closet ready to provide shelter for those poor little pumps, flats n' boots. You see, when our car broke down a year ago, I really couldn't afford to put the wish into swish, as the British say, especially since I had already spent a thousand bucks on moanproofing my walls (my neighbor's yes yes do it to me moaning, that is, not mine), but this time I was ready to nail the snail and hammer the slammer southern style. Well, you get the picture. (I thought I did too.)
Now, I may have overestimated my carpentry skills. I may have forgotten about my not being a spring chicken no more. I've been making very little progress and I've been wasting so much time and money I might as well run for President. And to add insult to injury, my roof started leaking the other day, peeing water down my precious walls making them yellow, meaning I've been trying to locate an invisible hole or crack like a snack for like forever. To no avail. Of course, meanwhile my colleagues keep bugging me on end and I'm basically running out of summer. Again. Please don't tell me you know what that's like.
And, yes, I know who's to blame. That's the easy part.
* * *