It’s Valentines’ Day. Insert derision here: _______
More importantly, I feel pretty today, oddly. I like my makeup (variations on a theme of pink chocolate) and my hair. It’s cold, truly cold, for like the second time this year, so I’m proving that I still know how to build a layered outfit (grey knit knee highs, brown cargos, pink bra, grey tank, pink thermal knit long sleeve, blue merino sweater, blue skullie, brown boots.) I'm eating a quickie lunch w/ my friend-boy, at his house, and the word "steak" has been bandied about. Yum. OVerall, a low key, low stress duck and dodge of a day. Except.
The boy, whom I have said multiple times is more for our mutual convenience than for any kind of romantic love, has pulled off a minor key, major holy-shit coup.
8am: @Neilhimself’s Harlequin Valentine audio: because this is my gift to myself for an inherently irritating holiday of angst and faux.
11:00am: Explain to boss-again-that I need to leave for lunch early so I can have 5.7 seconds in the same place and time as my murse.
12:00pm: Arrive at boy’s house to nearly done ribeyes and L’Ecole 41 Syrah. Fringe’s “Welcome to Westfield” is already queued up.
12:10pm: Oh holy cats do I love Fringe. LOVE. Lovelovelove.
12:45pm: Clean up his kitchen (He cooks, I clean. Hey, we’ve only got a 30 minute overlap to work with here, okay?)
12:55pm: Get in car only to realize that at sone point he’d ganked and returned my keys in order to get in my car and put the new Leonard Cohen in my sound system.
1:05pm: Late getting back to work because I was listening to new Leonard Cohen. Worth it.
5:02pm: Get CD out of car, only to realize that he’s actually burned me a copy and titled it “Crazy to Love You” thereby eliminating all the angst that had been building about my “friendboy” maybe trying to become a “boyfriend.” Because I’ve listened to that song, and I’m okay with being that girl. And he is too.
Best Over Commercialized Holliday EVA!