You aren't cool until they name a tropical storm after you...

The rain spewed as I laid in my bed.  October is just around the corner, and I still sleep with my window open.  There is just something comforting about a cool autumn night.  Burrowing with my blanket makes me feel less alone. 

I had a dream about a piggy bank.  Strangely, it wasn't about the piggy bank my mom bought for me when I was a kid.  The first one that comes to mind when I think of a piggy bank.  It was ceramic with white pigs all stacked on top of each other.  White pigs with polka dots on them.  The pig on the bottom was crying.  It was kind of a strange piggy bank. 

I sometimes wonder what happened to that bank.  I can't see myself letting it go so easily.  There were a lot of things I didn't see myself doing, but on the really bad days those things happened. I will pretend I smashed it into a million pieces in a fit of grief-rage.  Really, I probably donated it to the Goodwill.  It's probably collecting dust on someones shelf - oblivious to the history.

I prepared  myself for another day, splashing cool water on my face and stared at the bags under my eyes and the blemishes on my chin, a result of my chocolate binge last week.  A voice caught my attention as I towel dried my face. 

When I looked at him, I realized for the first time that his face had grown older, somehow.  It was inevitable.  I mean he did stop watching channel 63 and now prefers shows that contain the word "fight" and "battle" a lot.  When did all this happen?  An estranged penny on the bathroom counter brought me back to my piggy bank dream.  My subconscious is trying to tell me something.

On the way to the car I stepped in a puddle, maybe two or three.   I fumbled with the keys in the downpour, wishing that my rubber boots were not under my desk as my feet froze in the cool late September puddle. By the time I arrived to my office, my shoes were completely drenched.  For some strange reason, we studied a lot about trench foot in high school.  My feet have been trench foot free pretty much all my life so I think all those hours of learning about trench foot must have helped.  I knew I couldn't survive the day in these cold, wet shoes.  I slipped on my tall rubber boots, hoping nobody would notice them under my dress pants. 

My boss stopped me in the hallway, asking if it was okay if she still called me "Nikki Nikki Nine Doors".  I sighed deeply (in my head of course) and wondered if Nikki Newman, the soap opera character my mom named me after, suffered the same name branding.  My boss looked at my feet.  I had hoped to avoid awkward discussion about my footwear choice.  I really didn't want to share trench foot statistics with my boss.  I shuffled my boots and bit my lip nervously and added my annoying fake laugh on cue to divert attention from my boots.

and this was my day.  The rest can only get better.

Share this:


Hello..this is my blog. I bought this fancy theme and I don't know what to write here just yet. Maybe one day remind me I have to write something inspiring here?


Post a Comment