It's Five O'Clock Somewhere, Right?

It's one of those days. You know, the days that make you feel like, at some point, you must've been hit with a brick in the forehead, you just don't remember it. The days when you feel like nothing is going your way.

Because you know you need to start Christmas shopping, like, last week, but you haven't, and every time you consider setting foot in a store to start, all you can think about is your mile-long list of family, friends, extended family, coworkers and the like, and you start to panic. And you realize that you have yet to think of even ONE sure-thing to purchase for ONE person, and you get overwhelmed at even the prospect of walking into a store and picking out something that so-and-so may or may not like. Or that's what you did on Sunday anyway, when you and your boyfriend went to Middletown with every intention of starting the Christmas shopping, only to sulk your way through store after store, pouting and slouching and dragging your feet because the energy required to actually pick up your feet and walk was just too great, as you were already burdened by a list full of recipients and not one gift idea, even surrounded by all of that stuff. So you bought yourself $10 clearance aisle BCBG shoes instead, to make yourself feel better. But you didn't feel better. You just felt like you spent ten bucks on a pair of shoes you're pretty certain you won't wear.

So you fuck around online for most of your workday, trying to come up with gift ideas for your coworkers and even for Billy, because what do you get a guy that can top the awesome iPod you gave him last year? Yeah. Exactly: NOTHING. Or, nothing short of something with a price tag of less than a grand. So you look and you look, and you go on Amazon and create a gift idea list, and poke around in their "suggestions" for each person on your list, and you know there's nothing there they'd like. And their suggestions are a little broader than you'd like (they don't even have "car enthusiast" as an option for the recipients? But they do have "birdwatcher" and "Mystery lover?" That's not fair.), but you go ahead and fill out profiles for everybody on your list. And now a HUGE list with nothing (okay, one or two things) on it stares back at you like a catalogue of your failure. And as a nagging reminder that you better get on that shit QUICK because Christmas is coming and you're going to be out of time, giving bath products and sweaters to people before you know it.

But you're doing this today, when you probably should just be sitting in a catatonic state staring at gossip websites and eating Wheat Thins and salsa. Because you're crampy and you're bitchy and you're pretty sure you could cry at any second if given the chance.

Even though you were totally fine when you woke up this morning. You were in a fine mood after a fine night's sleep. But there you were, in the shower, shampooing your hair, feeling pretty neutral about most everything in your life, when you suddenly got mad. At, like, everything. And you're not sure why, but you think it may have something to do with the morning show you were listening to while you were in the shower. The one where the guy called in because he just bought a ring, and he wants to propose to his girlfriend, he's just not sure how he should go about it, so the DJs and the callers all pitched in with suggestions. And it wasn't that you got upset because you're going through that whole "any day now, he's going to propose" delusion that you've suffered from before. Because you know exactly when Billy's going to propose: Thirteen and a half years from now. Or maybe twelve and a half years, depending on how long he wants the engagement to be. But either way, you know you don't need to start wondering and hopefully anticipating until roughly eleven years from now, so that's not what bothered you. It was that they were talking about engagements, which is something you want, naturally. And it's also something you can't have YET (though it WILL come. You've been assured of this.), and therefore, no one should be able to talk about it until it happens to you, too. Because, frankly, you feel it's just mean to be talking about it all willy-nilly on a morning show when there are people out there who really want it and it is just careless to talk about it and rub their faces in the fact that they're not going to be wearing any diamonds on their left hand ring fingers anytime soon.

And for some reason, you went ahead and started thinking about work. And how that "vacation" you're supposed to have the last week of December has addendums you weren't quite aware of. Addendums in the form of "we're all going to come in on two days over our vacation to spruce up the office." WHAT? And you think about it, while you rinse your hair. While you finish showering. While you dry off. While you apply your face lotion. And by the time you've applied body lotion to every square inch of your skin, you're furious. Because those days? The ones they're talking about making you work when you're supposed to be off, in bed, not getting up until roughly 1 in the afternoon, those are the very days that Billy has off of work. They are the two days you were looking especially forward to. Because you'd get to spend some idle weekday with your boyfriend, and you never get to do that.

So, by the time you get into your bedroom to get ready to leave, and see that your sleeping boyfriend is sort of awake, you're incensed. You're fuming over it, and he doesn't quite know what's going on because, twenty minutes ago, when you got up to get in the shower, you kissed him sweetly all over his face, and he sighed, "Baaaabbyyyy," and smiled a tired smile and wrapped you up in his long arms and kept you in bed for another five minutes just because. And now you're this raging bitch, slamming drawers and walking around in a huff and being generally malcontent. So he starts talking to you, and asking you how you slept while he's all comfy there in bed, where he gets to stay for as long as he wants because it's his day off, and you just feel yourself getting irritated. And the last thing you want to do is unload all of the work shit from your brain onto him, first thing in the morning on his day off, but you can't help yourself. It just spills out. Before you know it, your woes have been poured all over the bed, all over him, and he looks at you like you're, well, kind of crazy. "So what? Go in," he says, shrugging. "It's only two days out of a week vacation." And you get more frustrated, because, CLEARLY, he doesn't understand the catastrophic nature of this situation like you do. And you find yourself thinking "Why can't you ever just listen to me instead of advising?" when you know you're only thinking that because he's not telling you what you want to hear. You want to hear "Fuck them! Don't go in! Those are your days with ME! I've been looking forward to those two days all year, too!" Instead he's telling you that you're not the boss, and if the boss says to come in, that you should do it, and he's being all responsible and shit, and you can hardly stand it this early in the morning. "But it's my vacation," you plead. "I should be able to do what I want." And now you're whining. Great. And, hey, what's that? Tears? AWESOME! Because this is totally a good reason to want to cry. Because your boyfriend is being reasonable and you're whining like a spoiled five year old. That's great. Actually, you realize, it's pretty appropriate. Crying just completes your regression to full-blown child. This rocks.

So you go into work all mad at the world. You drive the whole way thinking "I hate everything," and, while you realize this a very healthy way to start your day, you can't help but enjoy the way this self-inflicted anger makes you feel deep. And you play Sirius Coffeehouse because they play slow, sad music, and you marinate in whatever mood you've made for yourself until you get to work.

And only then do you realize it's your coworker's birthday. And suddenly you flash back to yesterday, just before you went to Wal Mart for household items, when you said to yourself, "I have to get her a card when I go." And then you think about your time in Wal Mart, where you spent roughly half an hour in the cheap jewelry section searching for the perfect pair of $3.00 silver earrings. Then you spent ten minutes deciding which kind of coffee to buy since they were out of Starbuck's. Then you spent another fifteen minutes looking for the perfect black/silver combination eye-show pack to wear to the Christmas party, apparently forgetting that you have roughly eighty bajillion black and silver eye shadows at home. And, since they were out of your favorite hairspray, you spent about ten minutes trying to decide whether you should get Pantene or Suave before settling on Suave, only to return to that aisle and put the Suave BACK and get the Pantene instead. And what seemed like fourteen hours after you got to Wal Mart, you checked out and left without the one thing you were determined to get: The birthday card. Nice going, slick.

So you search for an E-Card online as soon as you get to your desk this morning, but the pressure to pick one before she gets in (which could be at any minute) gets to you and you settle on a cute one that will suffice, rather than taking time and finding an appropriate one.

As soon as you've sent the card, you start messing around on your blog, where you decide to read your December archives. And you almost cry. Twice. So you busy yourself with actual WORK tasks just to make the day end already, hoping that you'll be out of your mood by the time you talk to Billy. And when you do finally talk to him, when he calls you in the middle of his day off just to say hi, you use what you consider to be an even-toned and sweet voice, and he says, "Still crabby, huh?" And you try to dance your way around it and say "No, I'm fine. I am. I really am. I'm fine. I'm...Really...I'm fine." But he doesn't believe you. And understandably so because you accidentally snapped at him when he suggested you pick where you guys are going to go for dinner tonight. You apologize, but you hear the shift in his voice that says I'd rather eat my own eyeballs than talk to you for another second, Ms. Bitchy. So you apologize and make your voice as creamy as possible, and he softens too. But right before he gets off the phone, he says, "Babe, you've got to get out of this mood." And you feel instantly guilty for possibly making him dread your arrival at home.

But then you think, "Eh. It's okay. He loves me anyway," and you go back to your beloved internet and do some more "gift searching" which quickly devolves into "Wish List for Myself" making, thereby rendering your last two hours at the computer completely wasted, because even if you've been ooh-ing and aah-ing over shit for two hours, the next time someone asks you what you want for Christmas, you'll pause, look up at the sky deep in contemplation, then say, "I have no idea." Which means you'll not only be giving sweaters and bath products for Christmas, but also receiving them.

And so, now, all you can do is stare at the clock and wait for the end of the day to come, so that you can rush home, take off your pants, tuck yourself into bed and wait for the mood to pass.

Here's hoping the end of the workday comes FAST.