Aftermath

Back at work. I never thought I’d be so glad to be back at work. Or back in Boston. But by yesterday morning I was literally bouncing up and down in my eagerness to get home by any means possible, even if that meant renting a car and driving for days, eating horrible roadside fast food along the way. Luckily, that wasn’t necessary. We landed last night and somehow the airline managed not to lose our luggage in the Bermuda triangle that is southwest Florida. I refused to believe that we’d actually get home until I physically set foot inside the door and detached the cats from my legs. Get home we did, though. The cats still can’t decide if they hate us or if they can’t stand to be less than a foot away from wherever we happen to be.

Let me just say that while Scully’s got a bladder that is disproportionately large for a kitty her size—when she pees it sounds like that drunken Tom Hanks scene from A League of Their Own— LunchBoy’s cats are award-winning poop machines. I have never seen cats who love filling up their box more than those two. Multiplied by 9 days, that’s a lot of cleanup work. That’s love for you.

My legs and hips are aching from being twisted up in airplane seats for too many hours. I anticipate carnage being wreaked tonight at yoga, seeing as I haven’t done anything more than paddle around in the ocean for a week and a half. Considering the quantity of fruity rum drinks I consumed last week, drinks strong enough to make me pass out at 4pm on our first day in St. Lucia, there’s going to be some major on-the-mat cleansing.Must. Stay. Awake.

Last night I dreamed about B in San Francisco. He wanted to get together again and I was assertive enough to list all the reasons why I wasn’t interested in his attention. I’m getting better at drawing lines in my sleeping as well as my waking life.