Stormy Monday

I went into the weekend filled with dread--not of the weekend itself, but of what the next week would bring. That's right--I started my Sunday afternoon anxiety attack well before Sunday, most because I was coming off a long, hard week, and the coming week, from the perspective of Friday afternoon, looked like it was going to be longer and harder. (Minds out of the gutter, people.)

My enjoyment of the weekend was therefore blunted--I wanted to curl up in a ball and stay there. It didn't help that, with my most comfortable shoes having fallen to pieces and been ushered unceremoniously to the Dumpster out back of La Casa del Terror, I've taken to wearing my least comfortable shoes--shoes which, given even half an opportunity, attempt to eat my feet. In this instance, I wound up with a nasty blister on my left foot, which led me to walk like Chester from "Gunsmoke" for a couple of days, including the aforementioned weekend--just another reason to stay in bed.

I had at least one obligation, though: A co-worker was performing with the Windy City Gay Chorus in Andersonville Saturday afternoon, and I'd already bought my ticket. So I hobbled out to Ebenezer Lutheran Church for a couple of hours of lovely music by Handel, Schubert and Queen (yes, WCGC and Aria, their corresponding female singing group, covered "Bohemian Rhapsody"--and beautifully at that).

Getting back to La Casa del Terror afterward was more challenging than expected, in large part because of my reliance on CTA, which, as is customary, let me down. I got a Foster Avenue bus straight away, but after a quick stop at Dominick's on Lincoln Avenue for some groceries, I couldn't get a bus going south, couldn't afford a cab and was in no shape to walk the rest of the way home. I finally made it back to my place around 8:30--an hour and a half after leaving the church. That's twice as long as it took to get there, and about half an hour longer than it would have take me to walk it (when in condition to do so).

I spent the rest of the weekend convalescing and ignoring my cell phone--I didn't feel like talking to anyone about anything. I'm back in one of those periods where I hate all telephones and am eternally grateful that my current job, odious as it can be, does not require me to pick up and dial.

Sunday, the weather, which had acted relatively springlike for a couple of days, returned to typical Chicago weather--dark, gray, wind-drivel drizzle and the prospect of snow in the forecast.

I'm at work. I'm even working. But the bed beckons. The covers call. The pillows plead for my head to rest upon them. I hear you, my friends. Really, I do. But Monday is going exactly as I feared, dears--I won't be returning to you for quite some time.