Every time I think I've made my peace with my shitty job and my shitty work schedule, something pops up inside of me like a cranky two year old and throws a tantrum, screaming "I don't wanna!".
Seriously, I don’t wanna.
Yesterday, I miss out on some good old fashioned family fun, The Our Lady Of Lebanon festival at a park in Van Nuys. I know my fellah said it was boring, but i also know I would have loved it. Food, family, culture, singing, dancing, a chance to practice my eavesdropping on Arabic skills. What's not to love? Plus, I would have included a night cap at our adopted Uncle Milo's afterwards, for the perfect Sunday. Instead, I spent a tedious 8.5 hours sitting behind my desk, trying desperately to focus on work while checking facebook for mobile uploads from the festival every 15 seconds. Time well spent. Whoo hoo.
But I'm okay, I recovered, and I managed to have a lovely evening at home with my fellah after he came home and promised me it was a tedious and boring day. Love him for lying to me, by the way.
Now, here I am, Monday, my Friday. I should be excited. I have two days relatively work-free for school and house cleaning and general relaxation. Except that I just heard it's going to be gloriously hot when the real weekend arrives, like triple digit, pack a cooler and head to the beach hot. My stupid brain won't learn, and won't listen, and so it automatically jumps to the conclusion that I can go to the beach at least on of those lovely days. Like a fool, my frontal lobe does the happy dance at the thought of flip flops, ice cream, water-related activities, and getting the hell out of Diamond Bar for a while, while the sun is still up.
Stupid stupid stupid.
There is a very depressing, melancholy part of me that believes I'll never crawl out of the hole that is this job, that I will never go to the beach again. I had about 4 good months of summer (I mean, this is LA) and I had one beach sunset, and one pool party abbreviated by driving. And Memorial Day. Oh, sweet beautiful Memorial day. That was a good one. Bikes and garlic fries on Venice Beach. But still, I'm not even 30 yet. I need more than 3 days of summer fun to feel fulfilled. I do not feel fulfilled. I feel like a semi-nocturnal parolee, not allowed to leave my area, and especially not allowed to do anything during the light of day.
I'm not even looking for wild, wet fabulous adventures. BBQ by the pool would suit me just fine. Or even just sitting in the sun by the beach on one of those days where it's not really warm enough, but you want to be in your bathing suit anyway.
Maybe I'm being melodramatic; I mean I did get something of a Labor Day weekend, but even that was spent nocturnal, rushed, and in no way associated with summer time, unless you count my optimistic donning of my bathing suit under my clothes, followed by several hours of summer wedgies. And getting into a fight over homework. Yay 3-day reduced to 1-day weekend!
I rest my case. The universe clearly owes me a summer. I can wait, make it up to me.